Lorelei and The Snow Queen
by c'estquatre
Summary: After the failure of the subjugation of Louvre, The Dead Apostle of the Lake, Lorelei Barthomeloi is punished. She must rent his former lands for the Magecraft Association from the current occupants. One particular territory whose royal family has been in isolation for the past thirteen years is finally opening it's doors for a coronation. A kingdom called Arendelle.
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0.

Elsa of Arendelle.

Princess of an almost forgotten kingdom in Norway.

A recluse who no one has seen for thirteen years about to succeed her deceased parents, former monarchs of a backwater kingdom map makers don't even consider when printing atlases any more.

Surrounded by a fjord on one side and snowcapped mountains on the other while burdened with an economy that still consists of ice as a primary export there isn't even enough money in the nation's budget to even consider building an airstrip. Needless to say, boats and horses are still the primary mode of transport, after all, there is no way a car could be considered anything but a scrap of metal during an Arrendelle winter.

In the ancient times the fjord was seen as a gift from the gods. The humans lived off the fjord, fishing, sailing, settling, while the trolls lived in their own valley in the mountains doing whatever it is that trolls do. Of course the twenty-first century fjord is nothing more than an inconvenience, interfering with the kingdom's eventual assimilation into global culture. So what was once a boon and the reason for a kingdom now isolates the very thing it was built, rendering itself as one of the wonders of the world that time and most of humanity simply let slip into that abyss known as the fjord.

And right in the center of that fjord, surrounded as if caged, is a castle that when reflected into the fjord by a full summer moon belongs in a fairy-tale or rather the alternate worlds within this one where elementals and the fae still try their best to frolic in this age of man.

An almost magical castle enshrouded by the elements. It can be considered a sanctum from the modern world. Its twisting spires and never-ending halls are illuminated with nothing but the soft shimmering of candlelight. A castle and kingdom cursed or rather protected by its insignificance and former boon. It is arguable whether it is a world that time forgot or a world lost in time itself. Like an out-of-print dime novel. Like a fairy tale. Like the princess doing geometry in its multitude of towers, never seen for thirteen prosperous years, this miniature world is isolation perfected.

Pure.

Clean.

Untouched.

Like the virgin diamond dust that blankets the castle roofs and its courtyards when winter sends her frozen regards. The uncanny pathetic fallacy of the setting, suggests, no, tries to prove this world's uncharacteristic, untouchable common sense.

Then it must be a cosmic joke that tonight is the princess's coronation. Tonight is the first night in thirteen years that the gates will open, yet the princess who has only seen four walls her entire life foolishly still believes her kingdom and her peaceful isolation will be everlasting.

-like a porcelain doll.

But of course who would have thought that tonight "she" of all people would attend?


	2. 1

1.

Numerous shades surround the dance floor flitting in and out towards the set platters conveniently prepared for this occasion before flirting back, craving other attentions. All the shadows in opulent gowns and crisp out-of-date suits dress the ballroom awash with small time trading partners puffing their chests declaring that Weselton is the next China while exotic pets make their rounds keeping far away from the queen of the jungle, a leopard, lying under a chair by the lone fireplace.

Its owner?

No one more than a girl, but a striking, high-minded beauty whose calculating, controlled gaze keeps away anyone who wishes to bestow upon themselves the pleasure of asking her to dance. That and the leopard under her chair as well as the stag on her lap. But alas, this is a party; the chocolate fondue is flowing and her dress is heartbreaking so, mesmerized, the suitors continue to approach the girl whose name sounds like a water spirit. Of course, at the end of it all, the girl wers the same bored expression and merely contents herself with stroking her stag's forehead as the single men walk away muttering about "that frigid Lady Barthomeloi."

"You should kill them for their insolence Milady." With the men out of earshot, the stag speaks.

"Not worth it and this kingdom isn't worth half of that." The words slide off her lips as a warning; after all, a talking stag has no place in a ballroom other than perhaps stuffed and mounted on the wall to keep the former so-called sage rulers of this backwater kingdom company.

"What about the Princess of Corona with that healing ability Ma'am?" From under the chair comes the leopard's mandatory wheeze of a reply.

"Using hair as a ritual item to amplify a nine count spell having its basis in the activation of a mere flower?" Barthomeloi throws a 'hmph,' while rolling her eyes. "If I was interested in some plant, I would call the Association's Herbology department."

The leopard and the stag stay silent. They know their place. One who treads the road least traveled in the current era, Lorelei Barthomeloi is a magus. More than that she is a Wizard Marshal, leader of the Battalion of Kron, her own personal vampire execution squad, as well as the Vice-Director of one of the three branches of the Magecraft Association, the Clocktower, ruling as The Queen so, in a manner of speaking, it is possible that she outranks everyone else in this party by a margin that allows her to sit by a fireplace in summer without socializing. As for the leopard and the stag; they would be horrified if anyone in this party compares them to a talking cat in boots but the comparison wasn't lacking.

Familiars, it is best to think of them as a magus's assistant. As a magus is someone who works tirelessly in a workshop producing results, the magus must impeccably trust the one running errands and obtaining the correct reagents. The classic example that every budding magus learns is an annoying, umbrella totting, talking cricket wearing a suit, or the pre-mentioned puss in boots. By taking a corpse and settling a leftover thought within it a brand new being with a brand new personality can be created. The limiting factor in this process would be the magical energy capacity of the magus so it is generally better to use smaller animals to save magical energy but Bathomeloi has no problem with supplying enough magical energy to support familiars such as these. If she were to stretch her capacity, undoubtedly it would be possible for her to support a Magical or even a Phantasmal Beast without much effort.

"Milady, stop moping around all day about that human leech. You might consider him dark and mysterious now, but a human leech called 'Single Edge,' is never respectable."

Barthomeloi's hand twitches as she starts to grind her teeth.

"No, no, Ma'am would never be interested in a child; it is that Dead Apostle of the Lake, right, how someone got him before we did? Ma'am's mad about that."

Her forehead crinkles at that mention as well.

Merely a week ago, after several years of searching, Barthomeloi had finally located Number Ten, Chaos's, successor. A vampire who not only had personally drained five thousand people but was also the curator of a collection of mystic codes that rivaled even that of the Evocationary. Of course, Bathomeloi did not care about justice or riches in the slightest. Hatred for human leeches flows as strongly in her blood as it did their need to feast on blood and she merely responded to that impulse in hopes for a pilgrimage to show her dignity. What awaited her was nothing more than a farce.

Beaten to the castle by a heretic Dead Apostle Ancestor.

Beaten to the target by the Rose Prophecy.

As if a headless chicken, Barthomeloi had done nothing but run around that castle in circles, and to add insult to the injury even if she is the leader of the Aylesbury Investigation Committee, she was asked to follow up on all the lands that Louvre, the now former Dead Apostle of the Lake, owned or had influence over and that was why she is here tonight. Barthomeloi doesn't care about the Association's holdings, much less about the Association holding this backwater that stubbornly would not leave the mid-nineteenth century. However as a direct order, or rather punishment, from the only person in the Association, nay, the world, Barthomeloi considers her superior there was no reason not to comply.

The leopard yawns, mumbling something about the leyline being overflowing before going back to sleep and this time he is not being snippety. With land like this, one could purchase at least one of the Crown Phantasms the Meister owned. As expected of the Dead Apostle named after that atrocious Parisian tourist trap. Even if this kingdom isn't an item he could store in his collection it was an investment with the highest pay out. After all, it wis said that trolls still lived in the vicinity. With leylines that can still support Phantasmal Species this area has enough of a distortion for one to actualize True Magic. As if that still matters though.

Unlike her contemporaries, Barthomeloi has little interest in Magic or the value of spiritual land. She came here because it was her job but even an excuse like "a job," should not mean anything to Barthomeloi. A job is merely a whim for The Queen. The life and status of a Barthomeloi is not something mere mortals could understand, even if they are so-called royalty.

During her introduction to the newly crowned Queen of Arendelle, Barthomeloi did not say a word; she had not even curtseyed tonight. Instead, even if it was the middle of summer she decided to keep the fireplace company. It seems what Barthomeloi had as a magus she lacks in genial social skills. That was the reason why she has her battalion; too bad she dismissed them the day before while filled with a blatant self-disgust that reduced an antique table to char.

Occasionally squirming in her seat Barthomeloi considers leaving right here and now. Away from those drab lights that created puddles of wax and the false cheer surrounding the event, away from the leyline, and the new queen; the Association can take care of that themselves. She is a Barthomeloi. There are things that she does not have to do. She would have left and taken the next plane back to London however, rumor would already be afoot that Barthomeloi had failed and if she backs away from this mundane task, the crack in the confidence in the Barthomeloi would only widen into a crevice.

Barthomeloi continues to grind her teeth at that thought also frowning at how she became the target of a summer breeze that wafts her way. The victim of an open door it seems.

"Excuse me."

"Coming though,"

"Pardon, sorry, can we just… get… around the- heh, thank you, Oh there she is. Elsa! I mean Queen! Me again… May I present Prince Hans of the Southern Isles."

Weaving through the crowed, pushing and dodging as if the ballroom itself is an obstacle, was a girl with a snow-white streak in her hair pulling on a man with ridiculous sideburns. Barthomeloi remembers seeing them earlier that the evening but no names come to mind. It isn't that Barthomeloi had forgotten but she simply doesn't care. Although from the familiarity the new girl addresses the queen with, it would seem that she is the queen's sister. Barthomeloi frowns even further, she does not remember anything about the queen having a sister.

"We would like your blessing of our marriage." They stutter. It is a miracle that they finished in unison, heads on each other's shoulders in some disgusting display of infatuation.

"That was fast," a bluntly snide remark comes from the leopard. "I thought she had not seen the light of day for more than a decade."

The stag tries laughing but it only sounded like a lamentation: "It is _because_ she hasn't seen the outside for so long she's found one that quickly, or rather, one has trapped her that quickly."

Barthomeloi stays silent for in the Clock Tower "love," was an open door to status, heritage, and magic circuits. For Barthomeloi who has all three and was known as The Queen the whole idea of marriage is idiotic so the idea of ever being in "love," with someone is even more so. Barthomeloi once claimed she understood the ideals of love as much as anyone else, but she has never put any stock in them. The Barthomeloi family has a strange rite of passage after all. The scion is kept away from public eye until they are of age and stature to receive the Barthomeloi name. In other words the children of the Barthomeloi don't not exist. Barthomeloi had been brought up without love, brought up to be perfect and here she is, perfection. So then if the default state of perfection is one without love; then wouldn't love be considered nothing more than decaying of that perfection?

But Barthomeloi's main concern right now is the fact that a princess is getting married in a couple of days which would mean Barthomeloi would have to stay for the ice-cream, soup roast, and everything else homely she despises while still trying to get the rights to rent the kingdom for the Association. It would give her more time, surely, but she would be obligated to stay while human leeches like Single Edge are allowed to roam undead.

"Party's over." Even if Barthomeloi is on the other side of the room she hears the Queen's nonchalant remark over the entire party. "Close the gates." There must be some disagreement with the marriage.

Disbelieving, Barthomeloi feels a vein in her temple bulge.

"Woah, Milady," the stag leaps off her lap as soon as she starts to rise. "Think this through before-." But Barthomeloi isn't listened.

Why hadn't she thought of this in the first place? She can't use magecraft because it would attract attention and then she would have to cover up one unnatural phenomenon with another, but the Barthomeloi family had more than enough wealth to buy this entire country let alone one backwater kingdom. In the beginning she was only meant to offer the queen a partnership. For that, the Association would have graciously paid the rent that will allow Arendelle to join the global economy. Now, she will ruthlessly pressure the country financially. The only thing standing in her way is how the Clock Tower would think of her but in that particular moment Barthomeloi convinced herself that, from the beginning, it is never something she cared about. Barthomeloi gets what she wants. The incident with Louvre made her need to prove that all the more.

Barthomeloi had lost. She watched herself lose and perhaps what was even worse, she did not see herself lose the second time. What was supposed to be perfection no longer matched up to the word. For the first time in what should have been forever perfection lost and now, even if she can't admit it, Barthomeloi is lost.

A lost two-fold loss.

All the party-goers are now arranged in a dance circle and the two who should have been waltzing in the center…

"Why do you shut me out!? Why do you shut the world out? What are you so afraid of!?"

Barthomeloi can't tell whose voice is whose but she keeps pushing. A chance that is missed is one that never existed in the first place. Throwing away her rationality, throwing away the majority of her self-respect to continue desperately clinging onto the dregs of her pride, she continues, storming towards her goal.

"Enough-!"

The famed single cry chills the party hall accompanying the fluttering of something in the air. Is it the crowd being boring again or something else? Barthomeloi can't tell. She is still in the middle of a fainting pack of perfumed ladies and powdered gentlemen. That is until she hears,

"Sorcery. I knew something was dubious here."

Hearing that word Barthomeloi breaks into a run shoving the party-goers away, not caring if they trip onto their obese loved ones or if their dresses tear themselves into ragged strips.

And when she arrives to the edge of the center of the circle and sees… Barthomeloi smiles for the first time that night. A smile she will not understand until much later.


	3. 2

2.

The snow glows white on the North Mountain tonight. There is not a footprint to be seen. Framed by mountains whose only spotlight is the moon, this place can only be called a kingdom of isolation. And The Queen?

With wind howling abaft, she tears over the mountain's face blowing aside any type of storm, swirling or not. Her feet do not brush the snow nor do her naked hands tremble in trying to keep her upright. Just as well because her dress still flutters in the wind she, herself, created. To a passerby this scene would be reminiscent of one of the many ships on the fjord that slice through the water. A lone magus should not be capable of such nature interference. Rather than the speed, it is the sustained velocity which seemingly breaks whatever laws magi have set up for themselves. Even if she is The Queen, the holy maiden who matches the 27 Dead Apostle Ancestors themselves, seemingly free falling up a mountain is still something beyond even her.

So then how is it possible?

"No wonder the old fools wanted this place," Barthomeloi speaks out of turn to no one in particular. An unnecessary action or rather an imperfect one. "Yes, it is not unfit for a Phantasmal Species."

The quality of Arendelle as a spiritual land is truly first class, in fact, almost beyond first class, so even if she is not the owner of the land or rather, since the land has no owner who understands its potential Barthomeloi can easily do the impossible and streak up a mountain as if she is a jet.

Leyline surfing.

The colloquial term Barthomeloi would never use attached to a common magecraft technique. Magi derive their magical energy from two sources, the Lesser, Od, and the Greater, Mana. The Lesser comes from the life force of the magus herself while the Greater is known as the blessing of the Earth. It is through leylines which the life force, mana, of the entire region circulates. With the support of the land it is even possible to blow away the processed abdominal fat of a god.

Using the leyline itself as a supply of magical energy, a magus is able to perform miracles that would require an entire team as long as the brain can withstand such a current. However, the term leyline surfing is also a misnomer. Rather than a technique it is more of an application. Regardless of the spell used, it will be sustained as long as the magus is willing. For example, all Barthomeloi cast was a floating spell, a miracle easily replicated with a broom. Then she applied a vector and added an acceleration attribute onto that vector. In short, the Jet Propulsion Method coupled with an attribute. The only short-coming of such an application lies in the first word of the name. The user is solely reliant on the leyline so then sustained travel can only be actualized above the arteries of the Earth. In the decadent terms of this era's degenerate hobby known as video games it could described as a very limited form of "fast travel."

After reassuring herself that as long as she follows the leyline she would find the Queen of Arendelle Barthomleoi frowns but it is not because of the abundance of snow around her. She had cast a barrier beforehand to keep herself warm and more importantly alive. She frowns because she remembers what happened when she stepped outside into what was supposed to be midsummer's night dream.

The source seemed to be a fountain that had been frozen mid-flow with its bowl half-filled with ice. Yet it was not an isolated case as the white carpet framing the castle's entrance crept onto the earth and now the little green that was left was trying to peak out wishing for a moon that it did not know had already gone to bed, under the cover of the clouds. The people in their party dresses and summer outfits shivered, hurrying back to the fireplace that was no longer Barthomeloi's. Trying her best to ignore the rabble, Barthomeloi took her time looking around. Many shrieked about their queen having cursed the land into an eternal winter and out in the distance a foolishly optimistic princess mounted a horse ready to chase after her sister who had run across a now frozen fjord.

"A Reality Marble, Milady?" A slight voice peeped up next to Barthomeloi. Murmuring in hushed tones, her familiars slowly gathered around her.

"Not even close." Barthomeloi almost snorted scornfully, but a Barthomeloi does not snort. "Not everything abnormal is a Reality Marble. You've seen too many human leeches if you think that a Reality Marble is the cause of any situation."

"You mean _you've_ been fighting too many human leeches, Ma'am." Ironically the leopard was the one who leapt to the stag's defense. "After all, you're only here because you left your post at Aylesbury to chance at a one, are you not?"

Looking away, Barthomeloi feigned disinterest. Her familiars were right; the moment she had stepped outside the palace she also assumed that this was some sort of Reality Marble, the blueprint of the soul of the caster, the Queen of Arendelle, projected onto the world. From what Barthomeloi could gather a world of ice might be something close to the shape of that girl's soul. That is to say, Barthomeloi had no idea what was in the girl's heart, only that she remembered the ice in the ballroom. That row of icicles was made to pierce. As far as she could remember the queen had said "Enough," while casting the spell. It would mean it was a one count spell.

While everyone else was rushing after the queen, Barthomeloi just stood there, shocked. It was the recreation of a miracle, anyone could see that; however, there was no change in the mana in the air, neither did the ice contain the usual magical energy. The form, the process, it was infinitely close to magecraft however infinitely close meant that it was evidently not. So when she saw the scene outside, what was at least a Ritual Class Magecraft produced and propagated so quickly she came to an answer.

Frozen Fractal

A common sorcery trait that often appeared in Nordic magi lineages. It was so common that even Freelancers would question the sanity of the Association if there was ever a target because of this attribute. The power itself wasn't that impressive either. Just by adding a simple attribute like "slowing," a magus with water as an alignment could easily cool her drink and make that new-fangled iced tea while those who could use attributes like "freezing," could emulate such an effect regardless of elemental alignment. The simplest way was to take one's own magical energy and add the "freezing" attribute onto it to make ice. It was a process that worked on most things in the world. Specialists were supposed to be able to freeze magical energy taken physical form, for instance, incredibly dense curses. But Frozen Fractal was what its name stateed. Simple ice creation. Rather than creation through freezing, magical energy itself when expelled was turned to ice. There was no attribute, no mechanism. It was a simple, clean, average sorcery trait.

So while standing outside in the biting cold, Barthomeloi could only conclude that this was a Bounded Field rather than a Reality Marble. Disappointing, considering a Reality Marble would only last, maximum, the night. She had heard of a similar Bounded Field before, however she could not be sure if the information was accurate or not. Rather than a true Bounded Field it was a Dream Barrier and the owner was the familiar of the former Number Seven's killer. If she remembered correctly it was dubbed "Midsummer Snowfield." In that respect it could be a mirror to this Bounded Field which infinitely produced snow. Quality-wise though the Bounded Field the Queen of Arendelle put up was superior. She converted what was summer into winter-like conditions. "Midsummer Snowfield," would be considered closer to a Reality Marbles as a Reality Marble was made to do something impossible under the World's rules. Any team of magi, coming together, could change summer into winter if they tried hard enough. However, there would only be a few who could make it snow in summer. In that respect, even if this Bounded Field's effect was more pronounced, "Midsummer Snowfield," was a greater deviation in nature, the greater mystery. More importantly "Midsummer Snowfield" was basically the actualization of an internal world. The queen's bounded field, no matter how complexly it interfered with nature, could not come close to that. Following that agonizingly thorough and extraneous, yet quite obsessive line of thought, Barthomeloi graded her accordingly.

She was not just a magus who revealed magecraft to the public, but a dangerous heretic unsure of her own power. That is why the moment that Barthomeleoi caught sight of a cloaked figure struggling against the wind she takes to the skies and, snapping her fingers, sends three bullets of unprocessed magical energy at the shade.

With a muted thud and then a sizzle, three holes mark the white carpet. Did the great queen of the Clock Tower just fire warning shots? No, from the beginning the killing intent was clear; anyone experienced enough could feel it through the icy wind. One to the leg, one at the head, and one final one to the heart. So then, is it possible that Barthomeloi missed? To assume for a second that the The Queen can miss is more laughable than her firing warning shots. So then the reason why the bullets never reached their target is clearly because of the wind.

"What-?" Sweeping up the snow with her cloak the Queen of Arendelle turns, trying to find her attacker.

However, Barthomeloi had already given up the advantage of being in the air; she will not allow herself to be attacked from all directions. Her first attack was to kill. In Barthomeloi's mind that surprise attack is the only one allowed for her. Considering the terrain and weather conditions any other action will lead to an incredibly drawn out duel and without her whip or gloves it will be a lot more troublesome than Barthomeloi will tolerate. More importantly, she is still wearing the same dress from the party. There had been no time to change and she likes this dress. She will not have it marred in some foolish magecraft tussle in an undeveloped backwater.

"You're-" The queen is surprised anyone came after her. Her voice has lost most the stifled regality bound to it during the coronation reception. Just like ice it is a façade that shatters when struck with the harsh reality of the world. This fragility leads Barthomeloi to quickly crush a wandering thought about what would happen when the queen's sister finally reachs her destination. "I met you at the coronation. You're Lor-"

"-Lady Barthomeloi," she interrupts, trying to move the process along or does she merely not want that insult spoken? "I'm here to negotiate a treaty."

The queen shakes her head vehemently, "Arendelle doesn't have any enemies."

"No," a pause. "It didn't, did it?"

Insensitive considering the queen just ran away from her coronation reception with screams of monster and sorceress trailing behind her like ravenous wolves edging her to this very mountainside. The kingdom's memory of this queen could be wiped, the other princess installed and then manipulated into giving Barthomeloi the rights to the land. So then what is this talk supposed to achieve?

The queen does a double take at Barthomeloi's words before replying with "I'm going to stay far away. Why do you care?" Stewing with rage, the queen doesn't even consider how out of place Barthomeloi looks or how she travelled so far away without a mount, but it is that question which slaps Barthomeloi.

Why do you care?

The first thing that Barthomeloi did after seeing the magecraft was not hypnotize the party-goers like a normal magus; rather, she ran after this minx. It was not a mistake as Barthomelois do not make mistakes. At least they didn't before she did.

Why do you care?

There was a line of logic and a clear decision that was made. So then what was that thought that led to this decision?

The Queen of Arendelle is indeed a heretic. She exposed magecraft to the public; that is for certain, but Barthomeloi had dealt with heretics before or rather, she had allowed others to deal with heretics. They were to be killed, not followed. The hunt, the burning sensation that Barthomeloi felt during a Dead Apostle siege doesn't exist here. Her blood did not yearn, yet Barthomeloi still chased this girl, abandoning the principles drilled into her since birth.

Then it is because she is a queen as well. She has the same authority as Barthomeloi did and Barthomeloi respected that.

Laughable, truly laughable. Barthomeloi has met more than her share of queens. Those who were born queens, became queens, or convinced themselves they were queens. Boring, all of them were boring. Just like this boring queen who is boring.

So then...

Only the snowflakes descent marks the time that seems to have stopped due to the prolonged silence between the two queens. The two queens who can use magecraft. Perhaps the only two queens in existence who can use magecraft.

Only one week ago Barthomeloi had tasted defeat. First against a mediocre Dead Apostle Ancestor and then against something she did not even catch a glimpse of. One week ago Barthomeloi learned what it meant to fail, what it meant to be human.

So then a mirror of ice with one glove in a backwater country is the closest thing that Barthomeloi has to herself. One week ago that would not have mattered to Barthomeloi, but that was a week ago. During that span of time Barthomeloi fell and cracked. The most fundamental part of herself splintered and no matter how much she tried she could not conceal it. So then had Barthomeloi merely regressed to the point of a chick deciding to imitate the first thing it saw?

But that line, what was that line? That infinitesimally insignificant line that tied Barthomeloi to L- It was the shiver on the back of her neck, the oblivion recording of a syllable, and the phase that lies on the tip of one's tongue which simply cannot be shaken off with mere regret.

But Barthomeloi immediately dismisses that thought. Her iron-clad reason being that if it was truly insignificant it should mean nothing at all, a cyclic redundancy.

"You're a queen, don't you have to be with your people?" Barthomeloi finally answers.

"They don't want me to be their queen. I'm sure you have heard what they have to say about me."

Barthomeloi whole-heartedly expected an indignant yell rather than that dejected response. If it had been a shout, perhaps Barthomeloi would have forged on. Even with Barthomeloi's "special" childhood, she understands the queen wants to be left alone. Perhaps Barthomeloi will come back in the morning. Maybe after a good night's sleep the queen will even look fondly on the treaty. However Barthomeloi decidedly will not tell her about the circumstances surrounding her kingdom. Instead a sigh and a direction is all she will offer.

"Yes?"

"The top of the mountain, it's that way, not the way you are going. That is where you were going, correct?"

The former queen opens her mouth and then closes it without uttering a word. Fabric flurries as she draws her cloak tighter to her body and leaves in the direction Barthomeloi points to.

The top of the mountain, the zenith of the world, and the peak of isolation, all phrases which cloud the queen's thoughts. She will be free, never to hurt, never to be hurt so in her delusions she never questions the peak as a peak. She never realizes the higher one is, the more likely and the further there is to fall.

Lowering her finger and with a small crease on her brow, Barthomeloi's face is stony as always. Yet, if one listens closely she would hear a regular rough grinding sound as if Barthomeloi is lingering on some half-formed though. Barthomeloi stays that way watching the hooded figure move further away until,

"Advice," she finally barks, letting the wind take her words. "Let it go."


	4. 3

3.

When Barthomeloi wakes up it is still dark but the night sky is clear of falling snow. Years of hunting human leeches made her more or less nocturnal. Members of the battalion even joke that they are eternally on night shifts but never in her presence of course. She shakes the sleep away from her eyes and pats down the hay she calls her pillow. It should be degrading for a queen to sleep in a stable, but Barthomeloi is a magus as well. She had made it so the bundles of hay on which she slept was as equally as comfortable as her bed back in London. Her only annoyance that night was the ridiculous man singing in the stable next to hers.

As if reindeer are better than people, truly.

After her conference with the now former queen of Arendelle, Barthomeloi extended her senses and found this incredibly shabby but still quaint little shack also known as Wandering Oaken's Trading Post and Sauna. It was disgusting. The store itself was all cramped and humid. Barthomeloi was relieved after learning there were actually two stables behind the trading post. One was visible but the other needed to be dug out.

Before she let out one final yawn, Barthomeloi checks her gown in case there is anything distasteful that needs to be magically swept off. Last night the owner, Oaken, had asked her if she needed warmer clothes. At first, Barthomeloi was not against such an idea until she saw the selection. One word, atrocious. There was even an outfit with a magenta hat and a royal blue skirt that belonged in the eighteen forties. As if genuine people still wore outfits like that. If others were worried about her outfit she can always just cast an illusion and with that in mind and the sun starting to peek across the mountain, Barthomeloi set off to secure a spiritual ground. 

* * *

><p>"At the beginning I was like 'Whaaaaaaa? Why is everything so small, did I become some kind of giant?' You know. Then everything started moving so I was like, 'no way, I must be flying!'"<p>

Barthomeloi just nods, disinterested, but at the same time there are the beginnings of a frown eroding her stony face.

"But then I started falling so I tried to flap my wings, but then I realized…. I didn't have any wings! So then how was I flying? And then I noticed that I didn't have my body. And then I was like 'no way, you're flying and you don't have a body or a wings, you must be a bird head.'"

She is a hairs breadth, or rather a snowflake, away from telling him off, but a Barthomeloi must show restraint even in the most frustrating of situations especially when facing a talking snowman.

Making her way to the top of the mountain once more, as if racing the sun, Barthomeloi was almost at the peak when, "Hi, my name is Olaf and I like warm hugs."

Something as preposterous as that that stopped her in her tracks.

Of course, like any ordinary person, the first thing that Barthomeloi did was kick its head off. Just the fact she did should demonstrate how far Barthomeloi had degenerated.

"Hey, why is everything.. wow~... I can see everything from up-," as the head sailed down the mountain Barthomeloi could clearly hear this Olaf's voice and see the pathetic, bloated body running after it before tumbling and amassing into one giant snowball rolling down a mountain. Not even spending a moment to ponder, she ran after the body. The sun wasn't even up.

Barthomeloi didn't doubt that the snowman was some sort of familiar like her stag and leopard. She had seen this type of familiar, or rather puppet; there used to be a Director who used Ether Clumps as Slimes but that wasn't the point. In many Northern countries like this where the days were short and the land was white, many magi preferred to create familiars who could handle the conditions. Eventually, after creating cumbersome chimera and freaks of nature, many turned the environment itself into a being, creating snow puppets and ice golems. However those were merely puppets, more like automatons, forcing what should not be able to move to move with magical energy. However, the main differences in this snowman was that he did not leak magical energy. He did not have a magic circuit implanted into him nor was there a spirit used in the process as far as Barthomeloi could tell. Yet here he was, 'alive.' Barthomeloi didn't even need to light a fire in her Mystic Eyes to see that and therefore could only define him as a type of Phantasmal Species. If that was truly the case what magical theory could even begin to explain how this Olaf was put together? Was there even a magus alive who could create a Phantasmal Species that wasn't just a chimera?

So she followed his body down the mountain and found the head perched in the fork of some branches and watched the body eagerly trying to scramble up the tree in an attempt to retrieve one of the thirds which made it up. The body tried to clamber up, reaching a quarter of the way by smacking its snow against the trunk until it ran out of strength, falling back down only to try again. Something like a dog trying to pursue a cat stuck in a tree. To Barthomeloi it seemed like he should have stopped after the first time. After waiting four or five cycles of this, Barthomeloi sent a gust of wind, blowing the head out of the tree.

Landing at the base of the tree, the head rolled a few meters as the chubby white body hurried, trying to reach its complement. It took long enough that Barthomeloi started rolling her eyes and needlessly inspected a frozen waterfall that she guessed would start glittering in about twenty minutes or so. Not solely because the sculpture-esque way the waterfall had frozen, but also because the jewel-like fish that had just started to scuttle about underneath the ice.

When it finally reached the head, the body promptly took it with its stick arms and ploinked it right onto the cavity, and then after clearing its imaginary throat turned to her and said, "Seems we got off to the wrong foot so how about one more time? Hi, I'm Olaf and I like warm hugs," as if it expected her to say something in the instant between his switching of topics to his description of "what it felt like being a flying head."

Barthomeloi kept her silence and decided to go with it, that is the silence as well as the snowman. She did not know what to say. After all, small talk was not part of her education and even if it seemed like this snowman was made up of more small talk than snow Barthomeloi hadn't even introduced herself after all.

"...Why is it so white?" Until he asks something as ridiculous as that.

"Because it's winter." Barthomeloi says feeling like a father trying to answer why the sky is blue. That is, immediately regretting even saying a word.

"What's winter?"

Once bitten twice shy. Something not limited to human leeches.

"What's winter?"

There is no way Barthomeloi is going to answer that question now, she is going to look forward and wait for this ridiculous snowman who calls himself Olaf to change the subject.

"Ohhhhh, winteeeer~ Whaaat art thooou?" Until he starts singing.

"It's a season," comes a displeased reply. Just like a father to whom the novelty of answering his child's question has lost its charm, because he knew,

"What's a season?"

His answer will just lead to more questions.

Nevertheless a parent is a parent and even if Barthomeloi is in no way a parent and even detests that thought at this point, because of her pride or so she leads herself to believe, she feels obliged to answer.

"The year is split into four seasons, summer, autumn, winter, spring," it feels like talking to the child that Bathomeloi wishes she will never have. "Each one lasts for three months," and then she pauses, "You know what a year and a month are right?"

Olaf quickly nods his head twice, "Pshaw, that's obvious, everyone knows what they are, why?"

Barthomeloi just gives up then and there. She can stand idiotic humans because there are billions of them; however, as a magus, she can not stand an idiotic Phantasmal Species. It is probably a failed product.

"Anyway, if it's so white because it's winter, I wonder what it's like during all the other seasons? I bet one of them is yellow, and the other is chartreuse, and... and... there has to be a rainbow one."

So it knows what chartreuse is but not a season?

"Autumn is primarily red; spring, green, and summer is hot."

Olaf bursts out laughing, slapping his protruding belly. "Oh you're funny, hot isn't a colour!"

"No," Barthomeloi keeps her face as much as a line as possible, as a slow grinding sound makes its rounds once more, "It's not."

And then all of a sudden the grating, incessant laughter ceases as if he looks at some sort of monster behind Barthomeloi.

"What?" she asks.

"What's hot?"

"Hot is what happens when it's summer," replies Barthomeloi trying to keep the level of her frustration as cryptic as possible. Maybe if she stupidly argues around in a circle the snowman will understand that it is futile to continue prodding her like this.

"I see, makes sense," the snowman murmurs to himself as he starts to pat Barthomeloi's waist. Because of the shimmering fabric, it feels like someone dragging a rake across her skin, but a Barthomeloi doesn't cringe. Something like this doesn't affect Barthomeloi because this the first time that someone has done something like this to her. In fact, it is so sudden that she momentarily let her shields drop. "So when it's summer it is hot and when it's hot it is summer. I guess that's the only way to tell if it's summer then," he finishes, clapping his hands together in delight.

"No..." even Barthomeloi is surprised her voice piques up. "Well, you see all this snow here now, in summer it's not there. Instead, everyone goes to find a different kind of snow, called sand."

"Ohh, sand, it sounds positively, absolutely..." he tries to twitch his non-existent nose in thought, "like snow! I bet it falls out of the sky and I absolutely bet it's black, after all it's like the opposite of snow right?"

During the snowman's exclamation Barthomeloi closes her eyelids. She knows the answer, of course, but it wasn't out of experience. No, The Queen, Barthomeloi, has never been to a place with sand before. The scope of Barthomeloi's life betrays her.

"No, it's already on the ground," opening her eyes again only a wry voice is left, "many people go and tan in places with a lot of sand and even if it can be black sometimes, it's usually yellow."

"So then summer is yellow? Hey, hey, hey. What's up with that? Wasn't summer hot, not yellow?"

"Summer's a variety of colours. It's not as simple as you think. You see this gloom in the sky? Well in summer its blue with just tuffs of whiteness that you spot from underneath that tree you visit every day after your lessons, and here," she points to a patch of white, "It's a deep, prickly green that curls around your toes as you walk through it, like a carpet, but just one that no one complains about." Uncharacteristically Barthomeloi allows herself to be swept into a full reverie. "And then you hear the bees and run away but never get that far because the dandelion seeds just trail behind you as if showing the bees the very path that you ran." She speaks of a naive time, one a lifetime away from the human leeches she now enjoys hunting. When did that happen? For the first time in forever she asks herself what changed that to this and more importantly was this always that?

Olaf just keeps nodding at what comes out of Barthomeloi's mind and more importantly her mouth, and when she draws for breath...

"Summer sounds positively gleeful, ahhhh, how I wish it was summer already. But winter… winter… Snow here, snow there, ice here, ice here, white, white, white everywhere, there's not much to make a snowman happy."

Barthomeloi snorts, "You say that."

"I really don't see what so great about..."

Barthomeloi cuts him off with the beginning of an incantation that at first rustles before sweeping through the clearing they eventually arrived at.

"Wow~. How is it so pretty now? How did you do that?! You gotta tell me how you did that." Both sticks hands are on the snow he calls his cheeks.

Barthomeloi drops her clasped hands and examines her handiwork. The spindly trees that created the barrier known as the clearing now gleam, as if winking, at the sun still trudging its way across the sky. Even if it seems a contradiction ice crystallizes into drops that hang from limpid clotheslines of frost linking tree to tree as if ornaments heralding that jolly old-timer, Christmas, himself. Only rather than a single tree the entire clearing has frozen over, yet it was not the season's prisoner. Instead it relished in winter so that the morning, twists, sings, and even dances to a song of ice and forest.

"Secret," she leaves him with that.

Olaf sits himself down and crosses his arms dumbfounded. "Well, we've talked a lot about what happens in summer haven't we? Enough that I absolutely bet you I could sing a song about it."

Barthomeloi nods. It's something she'd rather forget.

"But then what happens to solid water like me in summer?"

What a self-centered question but something like that is to be expected, no?

"It melts." A short, sharp answer that has to be expected as well.

"Is melting a good thing?"

Absentmindedly, Barthomeloi looks at the sun before nodding to herself as she moves away from the clearing. This snowman, no matter what he is, doesn't know what he is so then she has to meet the one who created him. Barthomeloi has a good idea who that is at least.

"Is melting is a bad thing?"

"Neither." Perhaps she says it a little too quickly. Making up for that Barthomeloi's brow crinkles for a while before, "Some things are worth melting for." Even if her distaste is visible, she will admit that much.

The snowman's eyes bulge for a moment. "Things... things... So then people as well?"

Finally, flippantly, "Yeah, sure, I guess there are some people out there worth melting for."


	5. 4

4.

A crisp snap runs rampantly across the top of the mountain and the reply is a roar that runs into the valley below which created avalanches that further buries what already should have been laid to rest. A needless redundancy. Not the avalanche but the fact that Barthomeloi is once again facing a snowman. Just that this time it is a bit larger than the suicidal one who likes warm hugs.

After leaving Olaf at the clearing, Barthomeloi made herself a breakfast any proper Lady who hated anything homely would be proud of and gathered her thoughts. There was only one person on the mountain who could create something like Olaf. The talking snowman had a soul or at least a personality even if it didn't have a heart or a brain. She tried to recall all the magical theory that she had learned but was still stumped.

Without coming up with an answer she quite absentmindedly mentally marked it as another failure to her now growing list and started up the mountain to visit the queen. Of course, she happened onto this instead.

A Phantasmal Species exactly the same as that idiotic, suicidal snowman Olaf. There was no need to exterminate it considering there was a bridge behind it. Instead Barthomeloi raised a bare hand to let that curtain raising snap cut through the crisp afternoon air.

"M'am,"

"Milady,"

In an instant her two familiars are beside her once more. Their calls to attention are futile in the face of the snowman's all-drowning roar.

"I want to see nothing but a lump of snow."

"As if it wasn't already a lump of-"

"Hush."

The screeching of icicles grinding together drown out the rest of the exchange. The snowman is a metaphoric avalanche to match the literal one that occurred mere seconds ago, but if it is a mountain then the two blurs that run in without a care for their lives must be the climbers.

In the mundane world there is no contest. Size matters; those who are larger are the ones who win most of the time. Why worry about techniques and tactics when you can merely squash all in your path? In the world of magi much common sense is ignored and some is even considered taboo; however, this rule of size stays the same. Just ask the Meisters. But at the same time the snowman looms over the two as if asking, daring Barthomeloi's familiars, "can you climb me?" And just like the mountaineers who risk their lives to scale peaks in the name of some foolish notion of romance, they climb. With its antlers, with its claws, with its teeth, with its fangs. The snowman is merely a mountain of snow so there is no way they can't find a tight patch of snow as a hold to propel them farther up.

"Get off me!"

Ignoring its own cumbersome body, the snowman shivers then nimbly extends its awkward limbs in an attempt to fling off the two mountaineers. The familiar's eyes are blinded with white while the familiars tightly grasped the body of the mountain as if icy winter air scrapes their backs. This phenomenon can only be called a snowstorm. One mistake, one lapse in strength would mean plummeting to a certain death. At least that is how it appeared to the two that were desperately clinging on, for Barthomeleoi would have seen nothing but a melodramatic travesty if she wasn't already making her way to the ice staircase.

At this point Barthomeloi is more than sure that the queen had made that ridiculous, no-nose snowman and if she had not then at least she made this one. A Phantasmal Species capable of human understanding and speech. It takes nothing to create a familiar with ten times the strength of the creator if it has but only one-tenth the versatility. That is why the pinnacle of familiar creation is one that can adapt to every situation. To humans this means implanting a human personality inside of the familiar. It is also another thing to create a Phantasmal Species. Any mad magus can make a Magical Beast, Chimera, if they glue and then tape enough animals together, but to create something as versatile as this…

"But even that means nothing. At least, not to me." Barthomeloi feels something creep up her face.

"Not allowed in there!"

With a burst of pure will and strength the snowman tears the stag off his neck and throws it at Barthomeloi's feet while the leopard is shaken off, unceremoniously landing on a patch that the snow has not yet covered.

Barthomeloi's eyes meet the mountain rushing towards her. From this moment they will not leave those beady hollows even as she bends down to slap the stag's rump.

"Eight seconds."

The stag's eyes snap open and after his legs cause a few flurries, kicking up a pile of fresh snow, it goes back onto its feet and as if it has earned a new lease on life bounds to intercept the snowman while radiating enough ferocity to demolish an entire mountain.

"_I implore you-_"

But there is no way a mere stag can flatten a mountain. No matter how sharp the stag's antlers are it is impossible to pierce through something whose only defining trait is its sheer size. But that isn't the only problem. Phantasmal Species are protected, be it from magical energy or some blessing. They are all hard to kill. After all, they are impossible existences that for some reason exist, remnants of a bygone era with different rules and physics so it should be obvious that something possible like this stag can do nothing but be enveloped by the oncoming snow slip. That is why Barthomeloi sent it; she had wanted it to do nothing. If nothing is the best that the stag can do then the stag best do the best damn nothing it could. At least it can buy Barthomeloi some time. In fact the more nothing it does the better it will be. Even the slap on the rump was a signal telling the stag that it was allowed unrestrained access to Barthomeloi's magical energy supply. All for the sake of nothing, Barthomeloi is such a magus.

"_-Until thy world becomes ashes_-"

The stag is tossed aside like some out of favour stuffed animal and the snowman continues its rampage making a beeline for Barthomeloi.

"Che-" Barthomeloi interrupts herself, "Only seven."

Raising its arm, reinforced with ice, the snowman readies itself to batter the lone girl still wearing a ball gown.

"-_And those cast into the wind-" _

But Barthomeloi does not retaliate. She merely continues to stand there reciting what seems to be a chant. Perhaps that in itself is her retaliation.

Incantation, the very fundamental of a spell. There are spells a magus uses that are released with only a single movement like the gnashing of teeth or the pointing of a finger like the three bullets of unprocessed magical energy Barthomeloi fired last night but they are only the basic of the basic. For more complex spells the user must recite a set amount of lines before actualizing the mystery. Unless High-Thaumaturgy is being performed the lines themselves don't necessarily mean anything. They are merely to further hypnotize the caster. Barthomeloi had asked for eight seconds and the snowman would need three more to reach her. That would mean Barthomeloi plans for a ten count spell, an A rank magecraft.  
><em><br>"-You stand here with no protection-!" _

Her voice echoes across the peak announcing the conclusion. Judging from the organization and the content it is a spell that does not wound the opponent but rather makes him more susceptible to certain attacks. It seems Barthomeloi planned on nullifying the snowman's protection before using that final second to attack; however, because of the snowman's strength rather than the stag's failure the crucial second never manifests and as her cherry lips close that final line, like a comet, the arm comes down to bind Barthomeloi and the ground forevermore.

Erect, Barthomeloi refuses to move; instead she continues looking into the hollows that are her death, unflinching, proud even, the exact way she has marched through her life because...

"Yeeeeowwwww~!"

Half in surprise and half in pain, the snowman screams turning his attention away from Barthomeloi, for sinking its teeth into the snowman's left leg is the leopard.

Familiars are linked to their Masters so when the stag started taking unprecedented amounts of magical energy the leopard understood what his Mistress's plan was and followed suit. In turn, Barthomeloi felt this extra burden and continued her spell without reserve creating this minuscule opportunity for her to gather her skirts and scurry up the glittering ice staircase while dismissing her two familiars.

Roaring, the snowman attempts to follow but the moment it hears something in the distance it stops. Its mistress could take care of one mouse. What it hears is a company. A Phantasmal Species' protection is immense. No matter how great of a magus Barthomeloi is she can only weaken it temporarily. So more humans will come, what of it? Even now, the snowman can no longer be touched by human means, except for of course the leg the leopard bit into. That will take longer to heal but no matter, for leg or no leg the snowman is a Marshmallow, white, fake, and will always bounce back.


	6. 5

5.

When Barthomeloi finally enters she is amazed not by the glistening that reflects herself no matter how much she wished it wouldn't nor how the ceiling only seems to be open to the sky. She is amazed that she is rather disappointed. An ice castle. She had saw on her approach, but here it is in all its glory, a mere ice castle. A sad sop of an ice castle. Even so, the moment she stepped foot into the castle Barthomeloi could feel its sanctity. She can admit that much. Making a bounded field, making phantasmal species, and especially her sorcery trait; they mean nothing compared to the intricate geometry that this ice is molded into. The interlocking plates, the exactness of the width and breadth of each sheet is not something that can be built overnight even with magecraft. This queen has a surprising talent for sacred geometry or perhaps numerology in general. To Barthomeloi this is not a palace of ice created on top of a mountain, but one of the finest workshops she has ever seen on top of a fallen leyline.

A twinkling jewel is merely pretty. A fortress ready to be fit with weapons is a possible threat even if it is in a backward childish fashion.

Barthomeloi continues through the corridors while morphing her magecraft shields into something more suited for the occasion. She wants an element of surprise, but it will do her no good to be melting the very ground she stands on. Still she would occasionally stop and admire the work. Crystalline in shape and as still as a corpse, yet that stillness pulses with emotion as if the ice itself is alive and worst of all, threaded with fear. An all-powerful, all-rejecting fear that without knowing it and even behind the layers of spells, Barthomeloi shivers.

After what seems to be a labyrinth Barthomeloi arrives at a displacement of ice. Round at the top then plunging into the ground, it seems carved from one solid block. Curious. The entire palace had been made with freedom as its keystone. Other than the door leading outside Barthomeloi has not even seen a handle. Also the palace is entirely made up of open doors or rather openings without doors. Barthomeloi wonders if there is a deeper meaning. A magus's workshop is meant to keep magical energy from leaking. The queen's current design expands that. Having open doors throughout the entire palace meant the palace itself, rather than a sectioned-off place, is a workshop. Such an idea makes it close to the temples of yore.

"The throne room," Barthomeleoi misspeaks to no one in particular but a few drops of water stains the ice-floor. Her breath must have started to melt the door handle.

If this is truly the throne room then wouldn't it be essential that this area be linked to the others as to maximize the flow of magical energy?

But without waiting a moment and with a mere motion of her hand she tears down the entire door and strolls in.

The stench of darkness is overwhelming. The crispness of the icy air only serves to heighten the scent of fear wafting through and saturating the room. Even the chandelier hanging from the arching ceiling has sable veins gliding within what used to be pristine crystalline perfection.

And in the middle of the room...

"Anna, I told you to go away!"

A miserable slumped figure weakly pushes herself off the floor and turns to face Barthomeloi.

"Wait... you're not Anna."

Even if the magenta cape is replaced with sheer ice and the platinum braid finally freed, the heaviness and the pitiful way she carries herself has not changed; after all does it not take more than a song for people to change?

"You. Are you here about that treaty again? No, if you're also here asking me to break this curse. I'm sorry but I can't," she venomously spits out the word "curse."

Barthomeloi frowns, "It's not a curse. What on earth are you talking about?"

"Not a curse?" The queen repeats, "You must have seen it yourself. My entire kingdom is frozen, of course it's a curse."

"Then why don't you go back?"

"I already told you," her voice starts to become shrill, "I can't do anything about it. Please Lady Barthomeloi, leave and go back to London."

Barthomeloi shakes her head and withdraws a few sheets of paper to hand to the queen.

The queen's eyes go back and forth while occasionally flipping the page. "This... is about a co-ownership of Arendelle? You're expecting me to sell my kingdom to you?"

Barthomeloi takes a breath and stifles herself her before answering. "We are asking for a partnership. The Crown would still have the sovereign rights to the kingdom. We want an understanding with the Crown allowing our organization exclusive use of the kingdom and particular resources. We believe that the amount written is sufficient enough compensation. Rather than selling, we prefer to think of it as renting."

The queen runs the numbers in her mind, "Yes, it's more than enough. With this amount whatever debt Arendelle has would be wiped away. We could start globalizing as well, but you've come to the wrong person. I'm not the queen anymore." She hands the papers back to Barthomeloi.

"Not the queen?" Barthomeloi slaps the papers out of the bare hand. "That's fine, that's completely fine to say, but if you say that you're not the queen why do you keep referring to it as 'my kingdom?'"

"I..." The former queen's form crumbles again. "I never wanted to be queen in the first place!"

Peals of silvery laughter ring through the room reverberating and resonating with the ice, and in the center Barthomeloi is laughing, clawing at her her knees for support in a dismally unladylike display.

"What's so funny?" Taken aback from the laughter Elsa can only ask. "Aren't you the one who told me I should let it go? I should be myself, no?"

"Yes, I was wasn't I?" Barthomeloi wipes back a tear. "But I don't understand why I would tell you something like that back then, but seeing all this, being here right now I can see why I did."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You say you don't want to be queen. It was something thrust upon you, a curse just like that ability."

"Yes, it is." The queen put her hands together in front of her chest as if clasping something so close yet long gone. "I want to be free. 'Conceal. Don't feel. Don't let it show.' I was taught. But here, up here I can be me. For the first time… For the first time in forever, I'm no longer paralyzed, frozen."

Barthomeloi says nothing at the caricature and merely looks around as the veins throb and pulse, rippling through the ice, through the queen's words.

"You ran away from your life, your people."

"They called me a monster, they don't want me. They'll be happier without me. And to be honest, I'm relieved. Ha," the queen smiles, "Can you actually believe it? I'm relieved."

"But your kingdom, it's buried in snow."

The queen's expression freezes. She has already referred to it so Barthomeloi was sure she already knew about it. It seemed that she has been avoiding the topic then.

"I can't do anything about it." The queen says while turning away from Barthomeloi. "They don't want me. My people don't want me because I can't do anything to help them. So the best I can do is stay away to stop it from getting worse."

"But you're the queen." It is almost a whisper. "Shouldn't you be with your people?"

"I told you didn't I?" The cape shimmers as the queen turns. "I didn't want to be a queen." Her posture is crumpled up as if she is still trying to hold something in. If she is, that's appluadable especially in this situation.

The edges of Barthomeloi's mouth twist into some sort of cruel mockery of a smile. "If you don't want to be a queen why did you build a palace?"

The bare clasped hands release themselves as a breeze that Barthomeloi can feel from behind her shields brush the room.

"Why did I…"

"You threw away your gloves, you threw away your cape, and you threw away your tiara. You supposedly let it all go, so why, why are you still acting like you're a queen?"

"I-I…"

But Barthomeloi won't stop. Or rather she has no idea how to do so, restraint against self-righteousness has never been in her curriculum. "If you really are free, if your past is truly in the past, if that's what you truly believe in, why is your role in this world exactly the same as it was then? Why, if you never wanted to be queen in the first place is it so that the moment that you are allowed to be whatever you want to be, you still indulge yourself into being a queen? Why is it that you built a palace?"

"So what?" The queen's voice was crackles in places, stammering in others. It is quiet, not the soothing kind but that of a cornered animal, "Yes, I'll admit it, I want to be queen, rather, it's not something I want to be so much as something that I am. All my life I've been raised as the next queen, the heir to the throne and it is the only life I know. So then, do you think that I am going to stop? Lady Barthomeloi, do you think that I can even stop?"

Barthomeloi understands the sentiment too well. To be a queen is to be a queen is to be a queen even if only a Barthomeloi can truly be a queen. One can separate the girl from the Barthomeloi, but one cannot separate the Barthomeloi from the girl. But for Barthomeloi this is the-

No, it doesn't matter. It is just that right now Barthomeloi can't accept this queen.

"So then why are you here?"

"Why am I what?"

"Shouldn't you be with your people?"

"No… What are you talking about? It's my fault in the first place that the weather is like this. Why would I be with them? No, as a queen this is what is best. I have to stay away from them, after all being there would make everything worse."

"Ridiculous."

"You think that I like being unable to do anything? That I enjoy not helping my sister or my subjects? That's why I'm here. I might not be able to save my people but I can make sure nothing else happens to them. I already caused Arendelle this much suffering, I can't go back and make it worse. As queen this is what I can do. This is my duty."

"_Wind-_"

"Wha-?"

A blade of air erupts from the frozen lumps that Bartomeloi's breath makes, hurtling at the queen without a second for her to cast a counter-spell.

The area around the queen explodes sending shards of glistening into walls of shimmering, mostly cracking but sometimes also shattering. A portion of the castle is cleanly cut and a crevice can be seen; however just a week ago Barthomeloi sliced off a piece of castle, so that meant…

"What was that?!"

Erecting a wall of ice in the last moment that shouldn't have been a moment the queen somehow negates most of the damage. All that is left of the defense is now shredded and then cubed ice.

"What are you?" The queen says as she brushes ice fragments out of her hair and off her dress. She is visibly distressed.

"A Queen must lead her people," is her only reply. "Running away to save them, that's not the same as leading your people. In fact from your coronation until now you have never once led your people."

"So then you're saying that I should go back down this mountain and further wreak havoc on a people who hate me, a people who want me dead and worse? I should go down and cause them pain, cause them despair? Go down and have them cause me pain, cause me despair?"

"A Queen who does not lead is not a Queen at all! Just a sad little girl playing queen in a pretend castle made of ice that may shatter at any moment. The Queen must take all the responsibility, all the hatred, all the grief, for she is the Queen. For that the Queen will always be alone; however, that is okay because she is the Queen." She pauses a while before continuing. "The queen does not wish to be free, for the bonds that tie her down are also the chains that bind her to the throne. And most of all, a Queen is never someone who saves. She will never save her people, neither will she ever hope to. All she can hope to do is to lead them so that they might one day save themselves." That is the difference between you and me, Barthomeloi almost adds.

"What sort of reasoning is that?" The queen's voice is shrill now. "Letting my people die just for the sake of being able to lead them? Above all, a queen cares about her people. How can a queen who invites the destruction of her own country be a queen?"

"How can you claim to know the hearts of your people if you have never led them? How are your subjects supposed to act when their queen has abandoned them, refused to lead them in fact?"

"Anna, my sister. She will lead them."

"So then who will you be? You, the one who was born and raised as a queen, not knowing any other life. The queen who ran away in her kingdom's hour of need for a pathetic reason like saving that kingdom. Many will demonize you; however through that process you'll become a martyr, someone who needed to leave to save the kingdom, something like the Anti-Heroes of old. But let me ask you this, do you really want to be a queen to takes in on all the responsibility, or a queen who has martyred herself for the sake of self-satisfaction?"

"You-" The queen starts but Barthomeloi cut her off.

"I've seen the painting of Jeanne D'Arc in your castle. You ran away from your kingdom, from your duty because you don't want to make things worse. You say that you are doing this to save your sister and those you care about. But I can't help but think; isn't that some kind of self-indulgence?" The temperature of the room plummets as the rivers of black in the walls start to flow. Barthomeloi momentarily considers adding more layers to her shields but instead, "To run away from the world and at the same time calling it salvation, calling that 'keeping the people close to you safe.' In reality, isn't it just not taking responsibility? It was you who created that snowstorm, it was you who was crowned queen. Right now you've just run away to a mountain top in hopes that no one else can reach you, deluding yourself that what you are doing is the right thing."

"Shut up-" it is barely a whisper in the wind that fails to separate and reach Barthomeloi.

"Conceal? Don't feel? Don't let it show? You sacrificed your life to keep your sister safe, but never once have you accepted yourself, taken responsibility of your own ability, your own station in life. You wanted to be free, but here you are faced with all this suffering, all this pain, but that's fine, you'll let it go, you'll let it go and say it's for the sake of those close to you, after all, all you are is a little girl playing qu-"

"Shut up-!" Elsa yells, not to deny Barthomeloi but to stop her from going further.

The single piercing note rings through the ice palace, wafting here, flittering there, and for a second it might have even gone outside where a giant snowman is guarding the palace waiting for the subjugation company to rid the world of the monster that froze a kingdom.

But all that means nothing to Barthomeloi. Her speech is dispassionate as it is distant, a fitting glacier that only decreases the already sub-zero atmosphere in the room. Just like the glacier that pierces her side.

The red drips. First trailing, staining her dress as well as smearing onto her leg before blooming in crimson flowers spread across the icy floor, for breaking through an impossible amount of magecraft shields is a block of ice, uncut and unremarkable. It is not infused with any sort of magical energy; however, to have pierced Barthomeloi's shields, at least according to her, magical energy must have formed its basis somehow.

Barthomeloi stares at her hand, orange from the smeared blood under a frostbitten sun. It doesn't matter that the wound is already healed without leaving a scar, for the iron-clad defense that Barthomeloi had always believed in, her pride, has just been penetrated by a person she just called a self-indulgent girl.

"_Wind, scatter-!_"

The shame itself sends her magic circuits howling as she retaliates with a furious barrage of demonic winds, all powerful enough to uproot the picturesque clearing that she had created earlier that day. And as if each has mind of its own, the winds leap and bound across the room as if guided by the cold spot in the area before plunging into the Snow Queen.

Any magus would gasp then become white with horror at the scene. After all, even magi have their rules. One of which the low, jarring sound grinded against until that single rule eroded away. Worthless like the centuries that carried it.

Blue Blood, the Sorcery Trait and the greatest treasure of the Barthomeloi family that allows them to continue to reign supreme in the Clock Tower. The family closely guards the true extent of their power; however, it is one thing for sound to be created from the activation of magecraft, but for noise to be created from someone simply activating their magic circuits? In the entire history of the Association there has only been two whose magic circuits have sung. The first, a human rocket launcher known as the Magician of the Fifth, Miss Blue. The second is no other than The Queen herself.

With only the allowed one count to reply, Elsa can do nothing but allow herself to be shredded.

"What?"

But again, the bewilderment comes from Barthomeloi.

Having never fought before and seemingly unable to kill, Elsa is still able to erect three pillars that serve as her defense, all of which are ripped apart when the winds graze them.

Barthomeloi incorrectly cares not that Elsa creates these three pillars in an instant and with no incantation at all, but rather she cares that they were able to block her spell. Each of the winds that Barthomeloi spread was able to turn a castle wall into powder. To defend against such a furious flurry one would need to imbued their defense with enough magical energy or cast a mystery greater than Barthomeloi's. What Elsa did was neither. It was possible for twelve inches of clear blue ice to carry almost ten tons of weight. Each pillar was created with that in mind furthermore each contained intricate patterns that further reinforced the structure itself.

"If that is the case then…"

A fountain and a waterfall burble into Barthomeloi's mind.

The instant Barthomeloi taps her left foot onto the glass-like floor a wave of magical energy shoots out towards Elsa, but rather than an engulfing wave it is shaped like the bottom half of a jaw, an exponential graph so to speak. Created not to wash away, it is a magical wave that serves to launch the opponent into the air where Barthomeloi's alignment, Wind, shows its true power.

Elsa quickly side-steps. The telegraph and the effect itself are too obvious even with an amateur as an opponent. A spell that should be applied during the middle of others if it has any hope of succeeding, it seems Barthomeloi miscalculated. However, Barthomeloi predicted that as well, so while Elsa is still in the process of dodging, a magical energy filled finger carves a cross in the icy air leaving a blue afterimage that begins to wisp away. Before it completely fades it erupts into a pure stream of magical energy that hurtles to Elsa.

With too little time to dodge once more, Elsa puts up her arm in defense attempting to do something against the stream of magical energy, but at the last second she, with brow furrowed, drops to the ground.

"Why didn't it freeze?"

Elsa stands back up now holding a singed shoulder. The only thing surprising is that her wounds aren't more severe. However, when she removes her hand, the healing becomes visible. The interlocking scales of her dress regrow and refreeze the bare area, not to mention the shimmering gauze of a cape is one once more.

"Even if the fjord is frozen in winter the fish are not affected. In the same way, if you try to freeze a stream of magical energy, as long as it is moving, at best only the surface will be affected." Barthomeloi's voice drops. She doesn't even know why she is talking, let alone lecturing. "Just like the magic circuits we use to let our magical energy, water, flow."

She attacked Elsa out of spite, out of being sick at looking at someone like that. Someone who wanted to be queen but with none of the responsibilities. Barthomeloi even forgot about the supposed deal with the Association, but that line can't help throbbing against the walls of her mind. What is that damned line? All she wanted-

"What are you?" Elsa's voice peaks ruining Barthomeloi's rumination. "Are you a witch? Did you make a contract with the devil?"

"A witch? There are many among us who would called themselves witches. But no, even if it's a noble pursuit, I don't dabble in Black Magic."

"A noble pursuit, what… what are you even trying to achieve here?"

The words resound through Barthomeloi's mind again. She has no idea what she is doing here. Along her path of failures she merely arrived here. She has never failed before, so then was this what it meant to be tossed around like a leaf on the wind? Barthomeloi shakes her head. No, it is nothing like that. It is clear enough, the queen's words, her attitude, Barthomeloi merely can't stand the ramblings of self-indulgent girl. Twin shattered mirrors, perhaps Barthomeloi merely can't stand looking into the one that opposes hers. Ridiculous, foolish, all words she uses to describe this queen, but more than that, she abhors the fact this so-called queen did not take responsibility. For Barthomeloi who is alone because she took responsibility, someone who was alone because they avoided it is something she cannot allow to continue to exist. As of then that will be her reason for following Elsa up here to this mountain top. To transgress on a fairy tale she has no right in co-habiting, for now that is reason enough. At least that is what she allowed herself to believe.

"_Wind- Erupt_."

And the battle starts once again.

* * *

><p>Wind brushes ice, creating snow. Sometimes fire melts that snow and then earth would pound the snow back into ice. A hunt of hunts, that is something Barthomeloi neither expects nor receives. In fact, all she can do is throw spells, waiting for that pathetic little queen to receive one of them.<p>

The moment her second attack failed, she could not win. She should have known but she was blinded by failure and frozen in loss. In fact the longer they fought the more the ice grew in confidence sheering off more of the wind, enveloping more of the flames, and freezing the earth in its place. Yet never did Barthomeloi use anything more than a two count spell, in-fact; after that initial barrage Barthomeloi stopped using two count spells entirely switching to one-counts before settling for double actions, and now rested on single action defenses that Elsa pelted at.

Genii in the world of magecraft are currently separated into two categories: those who have mastery of many magecrafts and those who are astoundingly knowledgeable in one or two. Barthomeloi is the former as her family carries the attribute "Almighty." Simple is the best is the Barthomeloi philosophy, and perhaps that is the reason why she loses so much sleep over White Wing. He is both the most similar to her and the furthest away. Both at the peak of their species because of their shared doctrine they have never strayed from. Therefore Barthomeloi's arsenal consists of nothing but the most basic of spells. She is an orthodox magus, a dime in a dozen who will never ascend Fes. Yet she stands as the The Queen. If all the fat is cut off then what is left is the useful. Train the useful, perfect the useful, make the useful your weapon. That is the thinking behind this style of magecraft.

The room rumbles. The noise from the giant snowman warning Elsa the company is a few hours march away leaks into the ice insulated room but the combatants aren't troubled. Instead Elsa litters the ground with icicles. She looks like she id having fun. She can't control her powers properly and she can die at any moment, however from what Barthomeloi can see, she is finally letting herself go. For the first time in forever she is able to release whatever pent-up emotion she has inside against someone she believes deserves to bear the brunt of it. And because of that Barthomeloi cannot not stand this woman, yet at the same time she can't help but marvel at how Elsa is keeping up with her.

The ice rages and the wind pushes back. The magical energy being expelled is no longer explosive, rather, it turns into a precision scapel, waiting for the right time to shave and cleave. Shards of the castle splinter and crash down coating the floor in diamond dust and then later on powder snow; however one cannot be sure which of the two element is causing such a phenomenon, after all a battle between magi is not merely a battle of ice and wind, it is also a battle between concepts. It is not the one with the greater rules, but the one with the system with the lesser flaws that will win, and in this case-

An icy blast meets a tempest and a block of ice forms in between the queens. Barthomeloi immediately kicks up white powder as she dashes in while surrounding her fist in a ball of air that is smashed into the block. The block starts to slide towards Elsa. Facing her own creation, her only option is to tether it to the ground with more ice. Barthomeloi must have used the ball of air to induce a vector onto the block, but Elsa doesn't understand what type of person could do that in the first place. Rather, she doesn't care. Lost in the ecstasy of battle she does not see the shadow over the top of the block, pelting her with more magic missiles.

Barthomeloi's power comes from the fact that her simple magecraft has the same effect as higher ranking spells. Even without the need or use of aria shorteners like Notarikon, her one count spells can slice off castle walls and her two count spells can even uproot a small house. As even a magus skilled in High Speed Incantation would take five seconds to produce such a miracle, Barthomeloi is the fastest because she is the strongest.

Gravity rather than magical energy carries a comet, a crystalline beach ball haphazardly created to reinforce function rather than ascetics, into Barthomeloi who promptly swats it away with a wave of her hand and her wind. But the distraction from above serves its purpose as the floor shakes and a fang of ice comes from below.

The same tactic and without any time to retaliate, Barthomeloi also steps to the side…

Yet if Barthomeloi is the fastest because she can produce the greatest result in the least amount of time; how is Elsa able to meet her and seemingly trump her? So then if this is the case Barthomeloi is wrong again because it isn't, "how is Elsa keeping up with Barthomeloi?" but rather "can Barthomeloi continue to keep up with Elsa?"

A spear of ice. Slender, thin, there are no edges and only two points. It is an impossible work of art and the lighting that will strike Barthomeloi. But she can break it. Something that thin, that sharp shouldn't be strong; however, Barthomeloi doesn't even have a second, so she'll just use unprocessed magical energy to-

She dodges, her arm is gashed; whatever she tried has failed.

Barthomeloi doesn't understand, but she knows that Elsa is different. Rather than producing the best from the weakest, Elsa skips the incantation process and produces the best at the shortest amount of time. That is, put it in the clumsiest way possible, while Barthomeloi is the fastest because she is the strongest, Elsa is the strongest because she is the fastest. She can produce miracles equivalent to a ten count in a single action. A arrogantly troublesome magus who can perform a single action equivalent to a five count spell against a self-indulgent girl who can actualize the equivalent of a ten count spell in the time it takes for a single action. It is obvious who would win.

Furthermore, it doesn't even feel like Elsa is using magecraft at all, but if it wasn't magecraft what else could it be?

But even that doesn't matter anymore because this is the final exchange.

Both opponent have not taken a true wound and by now, they both have forgotten why they are fighting. It is a pathetic, paltry excuse but a truth that still rings. Each is now truly the apple of the other's eye.

Barthomeloi seethes. Every one of her attacks has failed: all her battle experience, all her education, it has been no use. She ridiculed the queen, attacked her way of living, and called her a self-indulgent girl, but from the current situation could it be that Barthomeloi is the self-indulgent girl?

Once again she shakes the thought from her mind instead of grinding her teeth. She has been doing that a lot lately. However even that doesn't matter as she going to end it with one more series of attacks.

Tearing a slit from her dress that goes up to her thigh, she raises one leg and shifts her weight back. Her arm is behind her head like whip about to crack. Her circuits roar, spinning faster and faster as she winds her arm. Her fingers, three prongs, tightly grasp what not yet existed. Her form is perfect for someone who has never pitched before. It is not a spell that Barthomeloi would use, it is not even a spell but rather the preparation for one.

In reply, Elsa sends a boring wave of ice at Barthomeloi. The white crystalline front exposed to the air can be mistaken as foam while the pale blue shimmering of the bulk of the wave glides through the room as if a shark seeking its prey.

Barthomeloi slows her breathing and listens to her circuits, waiting for the moment they reach maximum speed.

Violently lifting her arm up, Elsa extends the wave vertically. The maw of the shark finally reveals its multitude of icicle teeth preparing to rip its prey apart, but before that-

The cracking of a whip thunders through the ice palace. The magical energy is created in the ribs, activated a magical formula, and then moved to the limbs in one fluid motion. Nothing more than knockoff of someone else's technique. Yet that is not the end as the demonic bullet is pitched with all the power that Barthomeloi's reinforced frame offers.

A highly pressurized ball of air, it easily pierces through the wave of ice.

This is Barthomeloi's greatest work. Rather, it is a pathetic magecraft that has no value, but with one single action Barthomeloi creates something that would take most magi more than five or six lines of incantation. The self-propelling ball of air will split into a barrage to which all Elsa could do is erect more defenses to block and in that moment when the smell of freshly ground ice and diamond dust stinks up the air, Barthomeloi would rush in with wind surrounding her fist prepared to pummel Elsa through her iced ballroom floor. Inelegant, it was a final resort, but for Barthomeloi her pride was-

She doesn't think about that though, instead, Barthomeloi merely dashes in the moment she pitches the ball and red.

A sharp intake and then a gasp. Without her permission her head droops down. Swallowing some saliva that tastes like iron, she turns her attention to the room, and then finally to her attack.

"Impossible." The blood garbles her breath but it is still audible.

Frozen.

Her ball of air is just in front her. She can reach it if she just reaches out her arm; however it is not moving. It just stands there in mid-air, in the middle of the room, frozen and Barthomeloi cannot not understand why.

"Are you ok-a..?" Elsa's eyes widen as she sees the scene she wrought for there, crucified in the middle of the room, is Barthomeloi.

Her heartbreaking dress torn and punctured The Queen is held up by spikes of ice originating from the room itself as if she is a puppet. Barthomeloi's blood colours the spears adding a red glow to the ice already marbled with black.

"No… I never meant…No…" But the image was in Elsa's mind the moment Barthomeloi dashed forward. Since I made this room, Elsa thought, then shouldn't the room do as I command?

But now as if they could feel Elsa's anguish the spikes retract, dropping a still blossoming Barthomeloi like a ragdoll onto the ground.

"What have I…?" Elsa looks at her pale uncovered hands. Foolish girl, she can't help but think that a mere night after she had taken off her gloves those hands have already been stained red more than once and soon when the curse envelopes the whole of Arendelle…

So she cringes, she withdraws in herself and the palace of ice is no longer an open door. Perhaps from the beginning this is all it was meant to be, a self-indulgent, self-imposed prison. The grandeur and the features, how sinister they now looked. Once upon a time, Elsa was shown a vision of what may be if she let her curse control her. Ribbon-ed with red and threaded with black, a mirror image of what she saw thirteen years ago now comes to claim her.

The usual fatigue that sweeps her after using her abilities is now coupled with a squelching in her stomach settling like an acid that eats her away from inside-out. For Elsa though that is not merely an image for the walls, already stained with her curse and now with her sin, started to spike even further, like thorns entrapping, chaining her to her frozen throne, just like the one she killed said so.

So when she noticed that Barthomeloi's body is gone it was already too late. The curled up body is nothing more than a red stretch on the floor. It must have pulled itself out the door that was blown open during the fighting. But for Elsa it is no longer something that matters as she slowly becomes the monster that her people fear her to be.


	7. 6

6.

Behind Elsa's ice palace is a steep cliff that while possible to climb or abseil down, would be ridiculous to try to do so without the proper equipment. That is why Elsa never considered checking it, for even if Barthomeloi was able to get out that way there is no way she could survive the drop.

That is according the common sense of the world; however, Barthomeloi is a person who, even after being pierced several times by stakes of ice, still managed to crawl her away across a room. She doesn't have superhuman endurance neither is there a hidden trump card. She is merely not allowed to die. Her magic crest, the grimoire tattooed on her body that is both the blessing and the burden of the Barthomeloi family did the best it could to keep her alive. Furthermore her circuits are numerous enough to heal most wounds without the use of magecraft. In fact, if one wanted to kill Barthomeloi they would certainty need to crush her brain or at least pluck out her heart.

Yet the damage was already done and Barthomeloi can't completely nullify the fall, instead she can only soften the impact. Luckily enough though it seems someone used the same cliff earlier that day leaving a pile of snow her to fall into.

With her back on the ground Barthomeloi raises a hand to cover the now sinking sun. She stays like that for a while, paralyzed, not due to recovery, but because she is unsure whether to be glad to be alive or ashamed. In fact, she starts grinding her teeth due to the frustration of being frustrated.

"My magic circuits," without her shields her mouth, dusted with white and wet, could only barely make out words, however, it isn't like anyone was listening to the pathetic girl in the first place. "Frozen? No, they're freezing."

Barthomeloi can only concede that this is the same phenomena as what affected her ball of air. There must have been some attribute mixed in with the spears that pierced her, but even if there was, it shouldn't have affected Barthomeloi in this way.

The magic circuit of a magus does not only allow one to generate magical energy from raw life force, it can also be used to reject or dispel foreign magical energy. That is why it took considerable skill to cast a suggestion on a magus. Even if the target is an amateur or several ranks below oneself their magical energy will wash away any impurities. The same should apply to whatever spell that Elsa used against Barthomeloi. Though as The Queen there shouldn't be anyone who can do this type of damage to her magic circuits with mere spells or magical energy.

Yes, Barthomeloi's magic circuits are freezing, but they hadn't been frozen. She still had time.

Ignoring the pain, ignoring the healing, she pushes herself out of the snow, slipping a few times but eventually regaining her balance. The elegant figure of Barthomeloi no longer exists. The dress is in tatters and she limps, barely able to stand properly. Ignoring even that she re-castes the most basic of shields to keep the outside cold at bay even if she can't keep the cold inside away and starts her feebly spluttering magic circuits once more to make her way to the only ones who can help her. The pride of Barthomeloi may have not allow her to seek aid from people; however, they are not people.

* * *

><p>When the Age of Gods ended most of the Phantasmal Species, their age and their physics no more, moved to the Backside of the World. However, there are those who remained, unable to go to that utopia or didn't because of another reason entirely.<p>

This was the case with the species that Barthomeloi is seeking help from. At their core they can't be classified as part of the Magical Beast series and are instead nature spirits, the only sense of touch this earth holds. Nature spirit, the name itself gives the definition; however there are many types; the woodland fairies of England, soul eating unicorns, and even the progenitors of the human leeches that Barthomeloi detests are all considered mediators for nature. The nature spirits inhabiting this land are closer to those one finds in jewels.

Barthomeloi stops, dropping herself out of the air and dispels her shields all the while scrapping her knee in the process. With her magic circuits freezing, the Arendelle leylines are an invaluable source of magical energy, a life preserver in a freezing fjord she could hang onto that also pulls her to dry land. She keeps her magic circuits idling though, assuming the longer they spin the longer they will take to freeze completely.

The area is exactly as she expected; amidst a world of white as if clashing is clear grey. The cragginess spoke of a time humans forgot, broken at times with wells of steam, puffing out wispy, hot air in the same way a freshly abandoned cigarette immolates itself. Barthomeloi looks up at sky awake with dizzying colours that wrap the stars like streamers, eerily glowing at the most inopportune times as if trying to highlight the fact that is the sky over four thousand years ago.

Geysers in an area without volcanic activity, the consistent grey even when confronted with an ever expanding bounded field, and the sky from a time when humans were the mere slaves of deified natural phenomenon, they are all typical features in a nature spirit's realm. Even if it seems as if Barthomeloi stepped into Wonderland the homes of nature spirits are not in a different realm. Instead they exist within the world itself. Horai, Avalon, Shangra-La, even the human leeches' Millennium Castle, these legendary lands are merely the product of the imagination of the elementals which ruled it and this little valley due east of Arendelle is no different.

Barthomeloi steps into the green littered among the stones, moss no doubt; however anyone in the Herbology department would be willingly to pay all four limbs for just a sample of this.

"I wish for an audience!" Barthomeloi's voice rings through to her only audience, the open air. While it surely sounds impressive, the tattered dress and the injuries do not lend to her cause. She hadn't even said, "Hello."

Yet the piles of rocks, giant grey pills, rock and gurgle as much as rocks could gurgle and eventually form tiny humanoid figures all staring at her, judging.

"This one looks much nicer than the one Kristoff brought home."

"Nicer? Try a sharper tongue."

"She… was…."

"Hotter?"

"No, she was definitely colder. Her hair was almost completely white"

"Sweeter, then."

So she judges them in return; their chicken-egg eyes with a dot of marker serving as the pupils are framed by ridiculous ears, two parabola's jutting out ridiculously not to mention the ears are the same size as the pebble nose above a slender mouth impacted with rounded teeth. Their fashion is even more ridiculous; all wore tunics of carpet grass cut high at the neck on which dangled glowing drops of colour. From what Barthomeloi could understand the males wear blocks of uncut baubles whereas the females wear rounder pieces of jewelry. It seems the older the troll, the more jewels they wear.

It is incredibly uncommon among nature spirits to have two genders though. The only other type she could think of are human leeches.

"I wish to speak to your king." Barthomeloi continues.

"Gah, she ignored us."

"No respect these days these young'uns."

"I-" Barthomeloi starts, however she is interrupted by a gravelly voice muttering about how he was just about to go back to sleep.

After a few mutterings of "Grand Pabbie," all the trolls grow silent.

"What is your name?" he asks while stepping through the circle of trolls.

Barthomeloi disregards curtesy and doesn't bend down, instead she stays where she is, towering over the king of trolls. He isn't much different from the others; however he does have a certain aura around him or is that his mane of wild grass? Either way the number of jewels around his neck is innumerable.

"I presume that you already know who I am."

As expected of a Barthomeloi. She doesn't even blink while saying that to the king of a Phantasmal Species.

"The only humans who have access to the Valley of Living Rock are people with the map or if they have lived with us long enough. We gave that map, that Mystic Code, to the royal family of Arendelle, and you are neither my funky-looking donkey of a grandson nor my reindeer grandson. A magus then."

Barthomeloi nods but is frowning inwardly however since an inward frown isn't something that can be seen, at the end of the day, from her jutting jaw, it just seems as if she has a toothache. She has heard stories of changelings or of fairies taking in children. Even if these realms are more or less secure sometimes humans slip into them, finding lost loves or what-not. However that is so exceeding rare that it can be called a miracle, the stuff that legends are made of. In fact the layers and layers of bounded fields that encompass these realms fool even nature herself so then only one with permission or someone infinitely familiar with the workings of the field would know how to reach this place. If she remembered correctly the former God's Word was someone who had encountered fairies in his youth. No one ever understood the reasoning of nature spirits though, however taking on a donkey and a reindeer as grandchildren was completely beyond understanding. So then if Barthomeloi is neither how was she able to find the Valley of the Living Rock?

"Yes, I am the one who wrote that letter to you."

To a magus it would an infraction of the highest order to consider renting spiritual land without consulting the resident Phantasmal Species as long as they were sentient. In some respects, to Barthomeloi at least, that is more important than asking the current landowners themselves. In her letter she had promised the trolls that the future second owner of Arendelle would not interfere in the troll's business, and he would also make sure that no development of any kind would touch the trolls or what they considered their territory. In essence, knowing the trolls, stalwart stones that merely observed and didn't want any change, she promised them the status quo.

The king nods remembering, "Yes, we found the terms agreeable. As long as the leyline remains as bountiful as it is now then we had no problem if the royal family didn't. Wasn't that our reply?"

Barthomeloi remembers being surprised when she received that reply. Nature spirits as nature's sense of touch wish for nothing than to keep the Earth the way she is. However there are some strange women who lie in ponds distributing swords to whoever will come along or those who execute their own kind. However these trolls proposed to let the royal family globalize the kingdom in exchange for use of the land. In fact, Barthomeloi was ready for a war of attrition that involved politely stifled letters and curtsies that went nowhere and meant nothing. At the time, she guessed that these trolls were changing just like the werewolves did, less nature spirit, more demi-human.

"You're wondering why we gave such a reply?" The king continues, "The people of Arendelle and especially their royal family have been nothing but gracious to us. We have never needed to use our more advanced techniques to protect ourselves. This single ward has served us through my lifetime and the fact it stays as a single ward is testament to our bond with the humans who live here. For that we will respect any decision that they will make."

Yes, that is how Barthomeloi found them so easily. Other than the fact the Valley resides in the greatest fallen leyline of the land, the bounded field itself merely keeps out the elements as well as anyone who had no place in the Valley of the Living Rock. While it is easy to detect a point of strange magical energy, it is even easier to detect an area without magical energy that should have been saturated with magical energy. In essence, a phenomenon was hidden with another phenomenon and was thereby even more obvious. They were not Barthomeloi's words but a contemporary's. Was it an Enforcer or a Sealing Designated? Either way who said it wasn't important.

"But you're not here to talk about that are you?" The King levels his eyes the best he can. After all, what sort of person comes to negotiate while visibly wounded and with a ball-gown in tatters? "First Kristoff, now a magus. That girl, I wonder…"

"You know her then."

"Yes, her family came to me about a decade ago. She froze her sister's head. I was the one who persuaded it."

"So then you understand it don't you? Her power."

"And you don't. Is that truly why you're here?" His voice challenges her.

Barthomeloi takes a breath to clamp her throat but instead releases the hot air in her lungs with one breath. "Originally I thought it was a mere Sorcery Trait, Frozen Fractal. But it's not is it? The creation of Phantasmal Species, the ability to actualize miracles like a demon, and that freezing attribute, each can be grounded in magecraft but all together…"

"You actually fought her?"

"Of cours-"

"Fool, an utter fool. I don't know much about magi but I dearly hope this isn't how they all act. Why did you do that? She's just a frightened girl and you decided to fight her of all things?"

Barthomeloi stands there without saying word, instead she lets her teeth grind as a reply. Her stony expression blends her right into the scenery. She has never been addressed in that fashion before. Barthomeloi… Barthomeloi attacked her because she couldn't stand her.

"The only way to understand the extent of someone's power is to provoke them into showing it."

However Barthomeloi please tell what is that line? At this moment what is that line?

"And look at you," he pointedly lets his eyes drift up and down Barthomeloi's figure. "All that and you are not one step closer to finding out."

"Then you tell me. What is she?"

Pabbie sighs before continuing, "The first time she came to me with her family, I noticed some strange magic."

"One of the five? Idiotic."

"No, magic as a general term."

"But there is no general term. It is either magecraft, magic, or something else entirely."

Pabbie nods, "Yes, it was that something else. You know about the counter forces, the one of humans and the one of the planet?"

Indeed, Barthomeloi is intimately familiar with the counter forces, the colourless power that arises from the Earth herself or the collective conscious of humanity. After all, she is just now speaking to a representative of the Earth's counter force. As for the human one; it works in different ways, empowering ordinary people to do extraordinary things when the occasion calls for it. These people are revered as heroes and removed from cycle of reincarnation. One of the most common examples is the Maid of Orleans whose visage still adorns a wall in Arendelle's castle.

Hearing no objection, Pabbie continues, "The techniques that we use and the ones that magi like you employ come from the same source; however, her, Elsa's, they are outside the rules. They employ a different set of rules that have no established magical foundation in the world. In fact some believe they come from humanity itself."

Silent, Barthomeloi curls her hand and examines her nails now in need of a manicure. It has been a long week, an atrociously long week. She had lost, been defeated. She had then been punished, sent to a backwater to negotiate a rental agreement where she again lost and now while her circuits are freezing themselves to an icicle she learns that there is no reason to be interested in that self-indulgent girl. What she is performing is not magecraft, a learned art, instead it was something outside study, outside genius, prodigy, or talent. It is simply "her." How hard did she try to chase her down? How much did she care? Barthomeloi, hand now in mussed hair, just laughs. Laughing at her misfortune, laughing at her own fall, she just laughs as if the perpetual world of darkness would one day turn to morn.

"Extra-sensory ability. So she's a psychic then?"

"Is that what humans call it?"

"But it's not just that, it can't just be that she's a psychic. All the traits, all the features, undoubtedly that Sorcery Trait, she carries it, so then…" Once again Barthomeloi is mistaken. A Sorcery Trait is not merely a trait that exemplifies itself in the realm of magecraft. Mystic Eyes such as Barthomeloi's own could be both Sorcery Traits as well as a physic ability so then what if rather than being expressed through magecraft her Sorcery Trait is expressed through her psychic ability?

"Her ability isn't cyrokinesis. It's something much vaguer." Barthomeloi remembers the staircase in front of the palace. With mere ice and snow one cannot not create something so delicate, fragile, yet sturdy enough so that people could actually cross it. However, if it had been a two-step process, the first an icy blast, and the second… The ball of air, Barthomeloi's circuits, and now the staircase, there can only be one explanation that would wrap all these impossibilities in one dainty ribbon. "She doesn't create ice and snow, that's just her Sorcery Trait. She freezes, she freezes things, be it water, ice, magical energy, or air, she can freeze it all. Similar to the Jewel Killer's halting, it is an ability that ignores element, no it surpasses element and goes into the realm of attribute perhaps even beyond that. So even a magus's magic circuits…"

Psychic abilities don't use magical energy so then there is nothing for Barthomeloi's magical energy to wash out in the first place.

"Like she did to you I presume." Pabbie motions at Barthomeloi to give him her arm.

He examines it for a moment, those eggshell eyes wandering as if he could see inside her and his fingers tapping, poking. It was not unpleasant, rather it seemed like a spa treatment one could get, the hardness of the rocks against one's skin gliding sometimes gently scrapping until Barthomeloi clenches her still grinding teeth. It feels as if a tongue of fire pierces into her skin melting all the ice in her body. Starting at her arm it is a stinging heat that seethes through her body, wrapping, melting, but at the same time taking. It burns through her entire circuit taking with it not only the ice but also the circulating magical energy and when she has none left for the ravenous salamander to feast upon the sensation blinks out instead of fading.

Pabbie removes the jewel from Barthomeloi's flesh, the previous soft red glow is now ice cold.

"You're lucky, the circuit wasn't frozen, rather-"

"-the surface was, yes…" Barthomeloi trails off.

The weakness of a person with psychic abilities or rather the reason why their rules are outside those of magecraft is that the ability is limited and empowered by that human's common sense. For instance, say on the off-chance that someone actually possessed that True Ancestor fairytale, "Mystic Eyes of Death Perception," the ability to see the death of everything. It would only work against things that the user believes "can die." In that respect the Mystic Eyes of Death Perception would not work against a broken cellphone or a broken flowerpot because in the user's eyes it is already dead. In the same sense, Elsa's psychic ability will not work against things that in her eyes "cannot be frozen." During the previous fight, Barthomeloi gave the example of fish surviving under a frozen fjord, no, considering the fountain and the frozen waterfall, perhaps Elsa cannot not comprehend the irregularity of an entirely frozen fjord and that was why she was unable to freeze the stream of magical energy.

"You figured it out." Pabbie remarks.

"She should be dead." Barthomeloi on the other hand is not amused in the slightest. "Even if it is not magecraft, compensation must be paid. She set off an eternal winter, one that still entraps an entire kingdom."

Barthomeloi is right for once. Physic abilities may not have a physical cost like magecraft does, however, like a television, changing channels requires energy to power the remote and the television. Creating twelve inches of reinforced ice might only be enough to cause some fatigue; however, no matter what physic ability, creating a bounded field that now surrounded an entire kingdom without any sigils is something that should have set her brain on fire.

"I have no idea but when I looked at her sister a few minutes ago I could not help but notice there was a snowflake growing in her eye."

The frozen fjord, the castle, and her spells, Barthomeloi's mind races from motif to motif and replied, "Something close to a magic circle then." She says without even a trace of a question in her words, "or even the sigil itself."

Imagine for a second someone who is able to bend objects with their mind alone. The first question to come to mind would be, left or right? Which way does the spoon bend? If there is an effect then there needs to be a mechanism even if it is invisible to the human eye. The snowflake in this case would then be same as the location of the fulcrum, a sign or a marker. There is no snowflake that covers the kingdom though, in fact the only snowflakes were those that froze the fjord when she ran across it. Then, could it be that the bounded field is not one that encompasses the entire kingdom, but merely changed the weather in a small localized area which then triggered a chain reaction?

"But that doesn't explain how she created Phantasmal Species. They were like automatons; however they had memories, personalities even."

Pabbie puts his hand to his head, until, "That's my fault. The last time her family came to me, I took out all her sister's memory that contained Elsa's abilities in them."

"Why? How on earth can a mere memory be dangerous?"

Pabbie shakes his head, "They are not. I wanted to be sure, however, in doing so, I was the one who made them dangerous. I believed that the memories would be dangerous because the ability itself could freeze the memory and then the person."

"However, at that point she didn't know that memories could be frozen. But by extracting a memory you showed her it was possible to manipulate memory, such as freezing them. Yes, you made a god awful mistake, but what does this have to do with Phantasmal Species?"

"It doesn't take much to create an automaton, however what Elsa lacks is what you magi call magical energy. Instead when she creates these creations, she freezes a portion of her memory, whether or not she notices is not important; however, she ends up implanting these memories, no, more than memories, you could say that they are fragments of her soul."

Since ancient times the soul has been hard to handle and even if they are necessary for magecraft only one magus has ever truly "understood the soul," and he was a human leech. Disgusting. The reason why Pabbie is able to mistakenly handle souls as well as help Barthomeloi is because he has and is the only troll living in the Valley of Living Rock with the Regression to the Age of Gods. Considerably different, they can still be likened to a magus's magical circuits in that they allow the reproduction of a miracle; however this miracle is one that occurred before the First declared there were only five feats left for humanity.

On the other hand it should be obvious how Elsa performs her miracle. Souls are merely "things to investigated," or "things to be moved into containers," and even if one could collect souls, they are merely a lump of unconvertible energy. Yet, souls also contain the blueprint for the body, the memories, as well as the magic circuits. So then if Elsa were to freeze some memories, snap them off like a chocolate bar ready to be melted into fondue and place them into her creations, imbuing them with her life force, well, everything would work out wouldn't it?

"Boring, so utterly boring. If I knew that this was the trick, if this was all she was… I would have never bothered in the first place."

"But magus, you did. More than that, you sought help. You don't seem to type of seek help from anyone, be it your fellow magi or anyone else. So then, magus, you have to ask yourself, why did you bother? Why did you bother in the first place?"

Barthomeloi shakes her head. "I do not know but it is probably merely a paltry proverb. Either way, how are you going to solve this eternal winter? Well, I guess since you are all safe here you don't have to, but considering that you were willing to help me, you have a plan don't you?"

Pabbie smiles, "I'll take that as a compliment, even from someone like you. But no, the earth's time is nearly over. Even we can feel it, isolated here. Five will be Six soon and I'm too old for an adventure like this, instead I'll leave it to my grandchildren."

"A donkey and a reindeer?"

"Even a donkey and reindeer can save a kingdom as long as they have love."

"I see. Taking advantage of modern stereotypes like that. Worthless. Is that what trolls have fallen to? Being love experts?"

"Do not insult what is beyond you, child. There is a reason why love has survived the ages. Whenever humans lose hope, they can always trust love."

Barthomeloi brushes the words off with her bare hand as she starts to leave.

"'The fiery throes of passion,' I presume. 'Love burns hotter than any flame?' Seriously. Is something as synthetic as that really something worth melting for?"


	8. 7

7.

"Ma'am, the bow is on the table along with your gauntlet and horsewhip."

Muttering "so it is," Barthomeloi absentmindedly reaches for the ebony table top.

"Did Milady have a satisfying bath?"

Barthomeloi's reply is a distasteful grunt before, "And where is my cup of tea?"

"We're a leopard and stag Ma'am, we can't serve you your tea."

Sighing, Barthomeloi leaves for the kitchen and takes the teapot off the stove blowing the fire out in the process.

"That vice-commander wasn't completely useless after all." She sighs again this time moving to her armchair and allowing it the honor of embracing her fatigue.

After the King of Trolls "persuaded," her magic circuits as he called it, Barthomeloi returned to the quaint room that she had rented. It was simple and clean, but Barthomeloi didn't appreciate it at all. It was not befitting a Barthomeloi she grumbled, but a Barthomeloi does not grumble. Now she let herself soak in its baseness.

"Should you really be just sitting here Milady?"

Barthomeloi's gaze slices then roasts the stag. The antlers would be the centerpiece of the meal.

"The queen was captured, Ma'am, by Prince Hans too, the guards say. Are you not going to do anything about that?"

Barthomeloi's mouth begins to form a small "no," but her nose catches the wafting steam and she decides to forgo the retort for a sip of this atrocious tea. A Barthormeloi must keep up appearances and drink tea no matter even if the leaves look like dried tar.

The bath, heated with her own magecraft, warmed the outside of her body and this cup is supposed to heat the inside as she looks outside at the snow swept streets. Even the lanterns are weeping white. Sitting in her armchair in her rented room with her fireplace hot enough to roast marshamallows, Barthomeloi starts to ponder different methods to stop the snowstorm. Not that she considers doing it in the first place. While it is true that she can blackmail Arendelle into giving up the land for her services it also broke the first rule of being a magus.

Let the kingdom freeze then, Barthomeloi would never have to look back, in fact; she just obtained a very convenient solution to the problem at hand. No one in the Clock Tower could whisper in hushed corridors about her failure if the problem was simply a heretical magus in an area where there was no Second Owner.

Raising her eyebrows Barthomeloi congratulates herself with a little smile.

"But Ma'am cannot help but feel t'is is naught if not bittersweet, can she?"

Sarcastic as always leopard.

Barthomeloi allows herself to stew in the room for a moment. She doesn't consider what her familiar says, rather, she is free now, away from her duty, away from defeat, she has let herself go...

So then what is that goddamned line that she can't recall? She had still held onto it just a week before that pathetic lizard winged, thrice-cursed, half-leech humiliated her. So then somewhere along the way had it merely slipped? Had it slipped so far that right now as she sits in what is the envy of this entire kingdom the only thought on her mind is the past? If that is the case someone please tell her, before she has nothing left what that line is-

But that urgency doesn't mean anything against the smug grins plastering the faces of her familiars. A leopard and stag smiling together, it is quite the sight. Whoever saus that these are familiars who knew their place is an utter fool.

Closing her eyes and placing her cup of tea back onto the table that still holds her horsewhip and gloves, Barthomeloi cannot help but blame that self-indulgent girl of a queen. If she had just done what she should have and signed the agreement then all this would be have been over, wouldn't it? But Barthomeloi never let her. That's right, from the beginning Barthomeloi had been preoccupied with a hunt, then a personality, then a fight, then a mystery. Excuses, all of them, just like the queen who claims she doesn't want to be queen yet built an ice palace on top of a mountain.

"Rather, Milady, who was it that told her she should build an ice palace at that very spot?"

Yes, good. Actually it is very good. The first time Barthomeloi confronted the queen she was the one who gave her the location of the fallen leyline on which the queen would build her ice palace. More than that Barthomeloi is the one who deliberately withheld information about the state of the kingdom.

Grinding her teeth, Barthomeloi releases her vice-like grip on the armchair and for the first time that night gazes at her naked palms.

"Why-"

Why did Barthomeloi do something like that? It is so insignificant, rather, it is something that she had not done rather than something she had so she hadn't noticed it at all. A gap. It is a hole, an abyss, a fjord, whatever it was Barthomeloi did not tell Elsa that her country was under deep snow. To what purpose did this subterfuge serve?

"I-"

The windows crack. The swirling storm outside grows stronger and stronger, the temperature has gotten lower and lower, and these windows, these damned windows made with mid-ninetieth century glazing techniques which have hoarded impurities day after day, shape after shape, blow after blow until… of course until this moment when they break.

That line. That line offered in the middle of a swirling storm on top of a mountain. That line. That line offered to a frightened girl unsure of her place in the world. That line. That line, perhaps not that line, but merely a lie. No, the contents were pure and true. Indeed the top of the mountain was in that direction, but the intent, the will, the Barthomeloi behind it all.

That is the day by day that splintered the ice.

And those words, those words, those ever distant words, lingering on the brink of a mind. Remnant syllables on the tip of a tongue that never did taste the air. Those words, that warning, this curse, the ones that never materialized. The ones that warned one's kingdom was in deep, deep, deep, snow.

That is the shape by shape that fractured the ice.

Finally, let it go, she said. Let it go, Barthomeloi said.

Let what go the queen should have replied.

Everything, let everything go. Climb to the top of the mountain, let it all go and fall.

That is the blow by blow that shattered the ice.

"So all along my intention was..." Barthomeloi whispers to herself. "I see, so even I can still feel guilt."

Ahh, so that is it. One week ago, Barthomeloi had lost. For then on it is something that has been repeated again and again, a hopeless and useless redundancy, but merely the fact something like has been made redundant shows how far Barthomeloi has regressed. Knowing perfection, embodying perfection, Barthomeloi has lived that way since she was granted the name. She has sprinted through life only ever stopping to sate her thirst. In saying that, she has lived in a certain way, continually binding herself in chains so she could continue living that way. There is no reason why she would choose to live in such a way, rather the reason is merely that she has been living that way her entire life. She has never walked a different path; however, one week ago she strayed.

Perhaps forcefully but freed from the chains that bound her, any other human would be pleased, delighted even, as if a burden had been lifted from their chest. One could be sure that there were those who only became true kings and queens after tasting the despair of defeat. They are known as those who shine in the sky like a sun.

Barthomeloi is not one of them.

So what she sought, what she willed, what she wanted is merely a mirror. To stop and look upon one who has fallen as far as she and compare. What is left? What is left after you lost everything that made you who you were?

For that Barthomeloi has chased her, tortured her, fought her, found her, and now abandoned her. But at the end her doesn't mean Elsa. Her could have been anyone as long as they were on a cliff ready to fall into the same abyss as Barthomeloi.

And that is Barthomeloi's tale, the woeful travesty of a girl who is no longer she. One who could not stand such a feeling so much, she decides to tear apart another girl's life. Rather than helping someone who was on brink, Barthomeloi decided to pull the girl down with herself so she could compare. Compare the dregs after the body, mind, and soul is all stripped away to determine who she really is. To find out what is left when there is nothing left.

That line. That line was left.

But she doesn't remember that line, for a gloved mirror of ice can only reflect a cracked perfection.

"Even so," Barthomeloi murmurs to herself. "Even so,"

She doesn't deny it. All the pain, all the suffering she has caused, it is simply because she was scared. Barthomeloi was ripped off her path, the path that she had been walking her entire life and placed in the wilderness of Norway.

She guided a princess to self-destruction all in the name of seeing what was truly at the end of the total annihilation of one's sense of self, what was left when one fell down a mountain. She then told the girl she was not a queen, that she was merely a self-indulgent girl who wished to martyr herself for the sake of self-satisfaction. She even fought the poor girl, forcing her into a mental corner where all she could do was let herself be captured or truly turn into a monster.

All for that that line, what was that-

Shut up for a second, for the question should be: Why did Barthomeloi chase after her in the first place?

Barthomeloi does not say a word and her teeth stop grinding, yet her eyebrows do not move one bit. The storm outside grows stronger and stronger and soon the entire town will be buried under snow, yet it is nothing compared to the storm inside the girl's cold hateful eyes.

Ah, so that was it.

Barthomeloi finally rises from her chair but it is Lorelei's hands that grasp the horsewhip and gauntlet.


	9. 8

8.

According to a big, golden, globe book, on the edge of a fjord, a deep mountain lake ringed by majestic peaks, the kingdom of Arendelle is a happy place. During the day, shopkeepers, fishermen, and ice sellers keep the city bustling. At night, the northern lights often light up the sky in beautiful patterns.

So then if that is the case why is the kingdom now a sea of white? The northern lights are nothing but the memory of the sea's foam. The shops are all boarded up, the fish having dived lower and lower into the fjord to avoid being frozen, and what of the the ice sellers? In particular one ice seller, indeed where is he now? Now that his trade is worth nothing, his love matting and plating the kingdom, the ice seller has nothing left to do other than ride, ride in hopes that he can still betray his trade and melt his product.

Therefore at this moment Arendelle is not a happy place. This desolate land that should be reveling in the throes of summer is bone white rather than the clear crystal of summer or even ice. And just like a castle hidden deep in the North Mountain, it is threaded with fear, fear of ice, fear of death, fear of a frozen life. Just now rather than the fear of a single self-indulgent girl, it is the fear of an entire self-indulgent kingdom, one that cares not who rules it, one that is looking for a hero no matter who that hero is.

Naturally the final scene of which the curtains should raise is this place, for the fjord was once seen as a gift of the gods. The fjord that blessed the kingdom with food, prosperity, and life, the fjord that could have at one time in the modest history of this kingdom been a pseudo-deified natural phenomenon is both the beginning and will undoubtedly be the ending of the kingdom whether it be due to global warming or the women standing in the middle of its dormant, frozen self.

As insignificant as the snowflakes that serve as both their background and foreground the two women face each other. One with braid unfettered and a sky blue dress belonging in an ice ballroom. The other garbed in clothes more suited for riding. She even has the tenacity to wear a bow and be armed with a horsewhip. The last time they met they were both wearing ball-gowns. The time before that one had her hair in a bun and wore clothes one could ride in. The other wore that same ball-gown. So then nothing has changed. Nothing at all except now the one wearing the gloves has switched.

"I have so many questions," Elsa says in a defeated voice, "But yo… you're dead. I killed you. I killed you so then how are you here, alive. How are you right in front of me?" She shouts the last part.

Lorelei has her pride as a magus, however she also has the coolness to disregard those emotions. But, this setting is already cold enough.

"You believed that was enough to kill me Lorelei Barthomeloi [ruby=The Queen]The Supreme Magus of the Current Era [/ruby], Vice-Director of the Clocktower, Wizard Marshal, Leader of the Battalion of Kron, Head of the Alyesbury Investigation Team. Me, who is directly descended from one of the three original Lords of the Clocktower and is blessed with the attribute and moniker 'Almighty!?'"

What a ridiculous person is the sentiment Elsa uses to face that unfazed, now perhaps even with the hint of a snowflake in her eye. "Then why did you come back for me, who failed to kill you?"

Lorelei's mind goes back to after she decided what her course of action was. After retying her hair into her typical ponytail, she set off to the castle. Knowing that it would be guarded and not wanting to deal with having to use suggestion over and over again, she decided to go around the outside to where Elsa was being held. It was not hard, Lorelei only needed to find the coldest part of the area and blow a hole in the castle. Stony faced as always but not grinding her teeth she broke the bindings, roughly grabbed the queen and left. Just as well because the door in the cell leading to the castle burst open the very next moment. Lorelei did not catch a glimpse of whoever it was, however she was sure it was that Prince Hans fellow whoever he was. That was new though since Lorelei was certain he wasn't at the coronation.

"We have unfinished business," is her simple answer.

"Then let me ask you this," Elsa continues, "What… no, who are you? Are you even the Lady Lorelei Barthomeloi from London introduced to me at the coronation?"

"If not me who else would be she?" Lorelei barks, "Everything that I have said from your coronation till now has been true. I come from an organization that wishes to rent part of your kingdom. We contacted the trolls living here and have received their approval on the condition that the royal family also agree."

"Organization? You mean there are other people like you out there, other people like me, other people who are cursed?"

"Only a fool would think something like this is curse."

"But isn't it? Just look around you. All this is my fault. All this is something that I have wrought. If I wasn't cursed none of this would have happened."

"Indeed it is all your fault. Like I said before, you're just a self-indulgent girl pushing away her responsibilities. Because of that you feel guilty for all the pain, for all the suffering that you are causing these people. You thought that they would suffer less if you left and that would be good enough, but that's just wrong. It's not your fault though since you could never understand something like that. After all it doesn't bother you does it, the cold."

With a shard of ice in her voice, "No, the cold's never bothered me. You?"

The gust of wind that is her reply, "The cold doesn't bother me."

A hopeful smile, "I see, so we're the same."

The shaking of a head, "No, we're completely different. I'll never see eye to eye with someone like you."

"Then, one last question." Elsa breathes in. "Why did you follow me? Why did you attack me? Why are you here right now?!"

"Because I wanted to find something."

"Rather than letting something go?"

"No, I wanted to find the thing that is still there after one has let everything go."

That line.

"And did you find it?"

Lorelei nods, yes, she says, yes I did.

They both let the wind's howling fill their silence for a few moments. The one that was filled, the one who became empty, this is the obvious conclusion for the both of them.

"So what now." Elsa finally breaks the silence.

"Now," Lorelei grins for the first time, "We finish what we started."

Pressured with that heavy murderous intent, Elsa jumps back unsure what Lorelei just said. "What do you mean finish what we started. I… you…."

Lorelei clicks her fingers and magic missile sweeps past Elsa's face. That is her only warning.

"You can't stand me. I see it in how your arms tremble and the way that you look at me. So why keep lying to yourself?"

"Of course I can't stand you!" Elsa screams, "You're a monster. You disregard the general good for your own self-inflated ego. You come chasing after people who obviously don't want to be found and attack their way of life, their sense of values, and their bodies. Worst of all is how you look at people. It's as if you aren't looking at them as people, as if you don't care about their personalities at all. How… how can you be this cold?"

"Because I am [ruby=The Queen]The Supreme Magus of the Current Era[/ruby]. If you don't like that then come so-called queen. I'll take your wrath, I'll take your ice and snow, so show me the full force of this so called curse of yours. Come!"

The two familiars that are summoned with that final syllable immediately charge at Elsa, but without even blinking she slaps them both out of the way using the ice in the air. She doesn't smile to herself, but Elsa isn't worried considering that she has already defeated Lorelei once before. The conditions and the nature of her own powers should make this one easier than the fight in the castle.

Lorelei finishes chanting and launches an array of magical lights and wind at Elsa. It seems that the familiars only served as a diversion.

But casting behind a diversion just shows how desperate Lorelei is. Not that it even matters because Elsa is the strongest because she is the fastest. She erects a wall of ice in front of herself and then completely freezes it making it impenetrable. Lorelei's spells clash with the wall, some of the spells make tiny dents, some embed themselves in the wall but none can make it through. That should be obvious, after all Elsa's ability is not just making ice and snow, it is also the very act of freezing something which goes against logic or this world's rules. So then how is it that Lorelei's next attack carves a hole into the ice wall so deep that Elsa can see Lorelei and her raised horsewhip through it.

Elsa's eyes narrow. She doesn't have the time to consider what just happened, she just knows that the next attack will destroy the wall she's been hiding behind so she runs out of cover, and exactly as she predicted, a gust of wind comes from Lorelei and breaks down the wall she was hiding behind.

Amplifier. The orthodox support tool for a magus. Wands, jewels, even some ritual knives all fit into this category. These do as the name states, amplify magecraft. The horsewhip that Lorelei holds is also included in the amplifier category. Even if Elsa's psychic ability creates walls that Lorelei's orthodox magecraft can't penetrate, or rather because Elsa's psychic ability creates walls that Lorelei's normal magecraft can't penetrate through, all she has to do is amplify the spell and brute force through the wall itself.

Elsa isn't disheartened though. Even if for some reason Lorelei can penetrate her defense then all Elsa needs to do is crush Lorelei before she can attack. The image in Elsa's mind is all the snow gusting around them due the snowstorm gathering and crushing Lorelei, pinning her down with sheer force. All she has to do is utilize her curse to actualize such a miracle.

As if frozen in time itself, all the snow in a twenty meter radius stops. Lorelei lowers her horsewhip. She knows what is about to happen but she has no way of stopping it with her magecraft. And then with a simple gesture from Elsa all the snow falls into Lorelei as if she is the earth and they comets, previously streaking in the sky now drawn because of some ridiculous power of attraction.

However they will never reach their Earth because the holy mithril gauntlet repels the assaulting ice with its glistening.

Limited Function. Different from amplifers which generally amplify magecraft and one's ability to use magecraft, these have a predetermined ability. When activated with a magi's magical energy they actualize a certain mystery. It is said that a lot of Heroic Spirit's proof of heroism, their Noble Phantasms were originally of this type: a spear that stabs the heart no matter what, a horn that scatters harpies into the wind, and a pelt that turns one into a boar of myth. Lorelei's mithril gauntlet is also one of these. While it is not on the level of a Noble Phantasm, it is a supreme defensive armament that can even nullify the materialized curses of a Dead Apostle Ancestor's Demonic Sword.

Elsa can't believe what is happening. While it is true that during their fight in the North Mountain Lorelei was overwhelming her at first, but as Elsa understood her power more and more Lorelei was clearly outmatched. Yet right now how is she the one being overwhelmed?

Elsa rubs her head. She has the beginnings of a headache. While she usually gets these after an extended period of using her powers like after she created her castle, or when she fought Prince Hans's men after killing Lorelei, it seems the last thing she did took quite a bit of mental energy. Or is it the stress of continually using her power finally getting to her? But no matter, she puts the pounding aside and lets her feelings consume her. She had frozen her sister's heart, she knows that much. She was imprisoned in her very own dungeon, and her people called her a monster. So then she will become one, right here, right now, facing the person who irritates her the most, the root of her problems, she will become a monster for Lorelei Barthomeloi. Damn everything that stood in her way.

The answer that Elsa never reached though is Mystic Codes, the support tools of a magus that allow one to do feats of magecraft one cannot usually perform or do so more conveniently, and it is under this umbrella term of Mystic Code that amplifiers and limited function fall into. Since Elsa is not a magus there is no way that she would even consider that these are the reasons why the battle has changed to Lorelei's favor. Lorelei has battled many Dead Apostles, some even Dead Apostle Ancestors and she has defeated every single one of them regardless of their strange powers. So then the reason why Lorelei lost against Elsa the first time in the castle was because Lorelei was fighting Elsa as a magus. Lorelei believed that Elsa was a certain standard of magus with a certain standard ability, she graded her according and decided to use sufficient force to defeat her, to teach her as a magus. However a battle between concepts is not about what is more powerful, but a measure of which rule has fewer tears. For Barthomeloi who believed she was fighting a magus and therefore fought as a magus was obviously outmatched by Elsa who fought as a pure human against a fellow human. But now the tide has changed; learning that she is a psychic Lorelei now fights Elsa as a human using tools, while Elsa still fights as a human using pure human ability. Only the conclusion will tell which of the two has the least tears in their concept.

Ice and wind clash again for the twelfth time with the ice being beaten back again and again. The strain on Elsa's face is visible now. Yet she presses on, her determination rather than her power is what is impressive. She doesn't care about the pounding headache anymore, it's just that the annoying Lorelei won't fall down, so when she sees an opening, she stretches out her hand and from underneath Lorelei's feet spikes come up to impale her once more.

Lorelei jumps back without thinking, however that is exactly the reaction that Elsa has planned for. Taking advantage of her opponent being stuck in mid-air she "freezes" Lorelei.

But Lorelei just drops down landing a meter behind the spikes.

"I can see it you know?"

Elsa doesn't speak. She doesn't know why her powers aren't working, rather she won't believe that her powers, her curse isn't working. Even if they are something she detests they are still definitely part of her. So all she can do, all her mind will allow her to do is to put her arm up and try to freeze the Lorelei walking towards her once more.

Elsa blinks in amazement. What should have frozen doesn't. Instead, something else falls onto the ground. It looks like a Christmas ornament however the inside is glowing and the outside is covered in ice.

"So Pabbie was right. I guess even psychics have to manifest their power in some way. I wouldn't have seen it if it I wasn't actually looking for it, but a snowflake, it really is quite beautiful."

Lorelei raises her head so her eyes meet Elsa's blue ones. Elsa inwardly gasps; she didn't notice before but Lorelei's eyes are different. It is as if someone has lit a fire inside of them.

Mystic Eyes. Single Action magecraft that most first class magi possess. This is a form of magecraft that converts the eyes, passive receptors, into things that can actually interfere with the world. Usually magi can only convert their eyes into charm or whisper type eyes through artificial means. Truly powerful Mystic Eyes like jinx, or extreme luck, are an inborn sorcery trait or psychic ability. The vampires that Lorelei hunts naturally have enchantment type eyes though. However, even if Mystic Eyes affect the world around them, they can also be used to see spirits, auras, encapsulated souls that are part of a Reality Marble and other information that one's normal eyes cannot perceive. By lighting a fire in her Mystic Eyes Lorelei is able to see that whenever Elsa freezes something a snowflake appears wherever the thing is to be frozen. She is then able to counter it by firing unprocessed magical energy at the snowflake so the magical energy freezes instead of whatever Elsa wants frozen.

Elsa stops and breathes in. She tries to collect her thoughts amidst the swirling storm as well her pounding headache, but her mind is still awry. Rather than calming herself down all the emotions that she has pushed down now come bubbling up and she can't help it. No, maybe she doesn't want to help it. She knows that this is for naught, that she isn't this type of person, yet now, with the fury of nature behind her, with her kingdom under snow, and her sister most probably in the arms of some foreign prince she is wrath incarnate. All her pain and all her suffering converges to one point and the winds around the two grown manifold stronger as torrents of ice and snow now completely fills the landscape white. Like the picture of a polar bear caught in a snowstorm.

Frozen with fear, yet pushed along with unadulterated hatred for circumstance this snowstorm will be Elsa's final attack. Yes, everything she's got, that is what she will use to wipe that annoyingly arrogant half-smile off Lorelei's mouth.

"So, this is all your everything." Lorelei says. "Good, I'll accept it accordingly."

Then Barthomeloi family have had a rule for as long as they can remember. It goes along the lines of "win even while the battle is proceeding," and it can certainly apply to this situation. Facing Elsa's ice storm, the raw ferocity of nature itself Lorelei ignores all that and focuses on one thing instead.

That line.

Elsa howls, launching her final at Lorelei. If the maw of the attack is a white boar then the trunk is a giant. A storm of mythical proportions it would take a team of first class magi to create something like this. The winds grow strong enough that even the thick ice below them starts to crack and the ships that are frozen into the fjord start to shake, some even falling, breaking the ice even further. And right in the center of the storm is Lorelei, her face, for the first time these past days, peaceful.

That's right, because just an hour ago Lorelei found what was left. What is left of her when everything else is taken away. It is a tiny insignificance that she never found pride in, she even had rejected it for most of her life, but perhaps it is because she had rejected it for so long, isolating it, so when the Barthomeloi name and nature collapsed, it still survived. The Barthomeloi family have one peculiarity or rather it is an extension of their absolute aristocratic nature. They view the family name as their true name and their given name as merely an attachment having no relation to who they truly are. But for Lorelei who had lost everything, plunging herself in failure, being thrust off the route of perfection, losing every part of identity except for the seven letter word that would still bind her to herself even if everything else is gone. It was the beginning of her, and one day will be carved in her tombstone.

Yes, what she found was Lorelei. Her name. So that is why even if it was Barthomeloi who got out the chair, it was Lorelei who picked up the gauntlet and horsewhip.

Elsa's winds batter Lorelei and her ice seeks to shave the rest of her off. However the mithril gauntlet will do its role in protecting her and the horsewhip will amplify the Lorelei's current shields. What Lorelei seeks isn't to destroy the current phenomenon, but rather to accept it all, to take this attack and see- See what exactly?

That line.

Even if Lorelei found her name in the depths of her despair, a name is hollow unless there something attached to it. If there is no substance behind the name then one might as well not even have a name. So then if Lorelei is what is left when everything is gone, what is Lorelei? What makes her Lorelei?

"You're right, when I look at people I do not even consider their personalities. After all, aren't the ruling class and the working class exactly the same? Yes, in the end isn't a person's [ruby=talent]special ability[/ruby] worth more than any personality, agreeable or repungent?"

This is the line.

Lorelei likes strong people, as long as the person isn't a human leech. If number twenty is a collector of treasures and the former number ten was a collector of mystic codes, then Lorelei would be a collector of people, not in the same way the former-former number ten was a collector of animals though. Other than her profound hatred of human leeches that is the core of the person known as Lorelei Barthomeloi, the part that still lingers when everything else is lost and the explanation to this entire travesty. The question had always followed Lorelei. Why Elsa? Why did she follow her, why fight her, why did she even care about her?

Lorelei told herself that she couldn't stand Elsa, that her way of living was wrong and that she was a self-indulgent girl but that is just an excuse. No matter what, Lorelei couldn't let Elsa go, it is not the type of attachment like love or obsession. It is something much more natural for Lorelei.

Right, it is that line.

So right now, even if Elsa has admitted that she cannot stand Lorelei. Even if Elsa is indeed being a self-indulgent child, Lorelei doesn't care. All Lorelei cares about is seeing the extent of Elsa's power and whether not it stirs interest within her.

It's disgusting. It's abominable. For that reason alone Lorelei ended up torturing a girl, pushing her into a corner physically and mentally, first so that Lorelei could have a shattered mirror to find the name that she used to think so little of. And now she has broken Elsa out of a prison and forced her to fight once more to not only sate Lorelei's curiosity, but so Lorelei can deem if she is or is not worth of her attention.

Yet one cannot find a speck of guilt in Lorelei's face. Her face is relaxed and her teeth are no longer grinding. Instead that half-smile speaks volumes of how much Lorelei is enjoying this. She has found who she is and will now never let something that precious. It doesn't matter to her that she ruined the life of the girl in front of her. After all that is Lorelei Barthomeloi: the troublesome, lonely, [ruby=The Queen] Supreme Magus of the Current Era [/ruby] so there is no way she could lose to some self-indulgent girl's temper tantrum. The gauntlet covering her formerly bare hand is testament to that. She is no longer the raw Barthomeloi, but the Lorelei she has concealed herself with, the exact opposite to the repressed Elsa and the one which now rages.

So as a matter of course the storm passes. The wind is still howling and the ice still batters at her riding clothes but Elsa's power over it has slackened. In fact, Elsa is lying there on the ground, her only support being the weak arms that hold her up.

"So that was it? How disappointing."

Hot, angry tears gnaw at Elsa's cheeks. Why wasn't that enough? Why couldn't I win? Even unleashing the entirety of my curse, even letting go of all my emotions, why isn't it enough to beat this woman? All those questions circle her mind. She raises her arm trying to freeze Lorelei once more but the headache is too strong, and all she can do put her hand down before she loses who she is.

So Elsa lies there in the kingdom of ice and snow she rules and wrought watching Lorelei turn on her ankle and leave.

"Love." But Lorelei stops mid-turn, her ponytail flapping and says something on a whimsy.

"Love?"

"Something that can't be frozen, love."

"What does that mean!? Can't you ever say something straight? How can an emotion be frozen, how can an emotion do, mean anything against this?" She gestures to the bone white landscape.

Lorelei shrugs without any ill will and completes her turn to start walking into the snowstorm, away from Elsa's collapsed body. She's lost all interest, even in the mission that she was given. Yes, Lorelei Barthomeloi has found something far more precious.

So Elsa's pathetic figure looks on at the fading figure. The idiot who found the most insignificant thing in the world, something she should have never forgotten while ruining Elsa's life and leaving her to her death. Indeed, she can hear him now, Prince Hans running across the ice. In a few minutes he will reach her and as the hero of this fairy tale slay the monster with the princess. He is the Southern Isles embodied, the sun of the story. The sun that shines so radiantly that all the other actors seem dim. That is the existence currently behind Elsa. If is the case though, then Lorelei who is in front of her would be the eclipse that intruded into her fairy tale, the one who never took center stage but manipulated everything into this conclusion.

And trapped in the middle of their orbit, all Elsa can do is wait for her death. Powerless, alone, exactly the same way she has felt her entire life amidst the clashing of boots against ice and the gaiety of song.

Song?

"As I strolled out to Aylesbury t'was a market day" a bell-like sound and folksy tune.

"I met a pretty little girl as I was on me way." Ah, so Lorelei is singing.

"Her business was to market, with butter, cheese, and whey," a nostalgic tune even if Elsa has never heard it before. However as she listens to it more and more she feels hollow as if… Yes, her biggest regret.

"And we both strolled on together me boys, singing fol-the-rol-iddle-ol-day."

Ah, if she could only see summer once more.


	10. Author Notes

Authors Notes

I didn't intend to make this a chapter into itself and hopefully this will not be long. Either way this was started a while back, and then left to rot, then finished yesterday.

This is the story of Lorelei after Prelude and before Tsukihime 2 if it ever comes or if it doesn't. It is set in the 2000's which I know goes against anything Frozen, but considering Ciel's tiny village is basically like the middle ages, I don't think it matters much.

To be honest I don't actually like Frozen much; the night that I actually watched it I was like, wow Elsa's powers are so stupid. I wonder how they would fit in Type-Moon. And eventually I got here. Elsa here seems stronger than her Disney counterpart, but since you've read the story you know that during most of the time Elsa used her powers in the movie she was running on fumes. Disney and Type-Moon do not mesh well, however, since this story was set in Norway, and the Louvre hunt was in Norway it was an opportunity too good to miss. Queen against Queen, Lorelei against Elsa. I would like to say that this story is entirely about Lorelei that is why Anna, Kristoff, Sven, only get mentions. The trolls and Olaf were important.

Rather than a crossover between two universes where things happen and the outcome is different, from the beginning I wanted the outcome to be the same. Rather I believed that Hans was not a good enough antagonist in that all he did was take advantage of a great opportunity. Basically Frozen didn't have an antagonist, someone who drove the story, so I decided to make that antagonist Lorelei. Of course Lorelei is only an antagonist if you think of it in a Frozen sense, since here she is actually the protagonist. She's not a good person, neither is she that admirable, however, Lorelei is who is she and at the end of the story she finds out who she really is and accepts herself for who she is, and isn't that the morale to Frozen anyway. Other than not shutting people out.

If using lyrics sounded awkward to you I'm glad that it did. It just goes to show how different Lorelei is to Frozen and Disney in general where singing is natural. Here it's artificial, stilted, awkward, and even cringeworthy like Lorelei herself.

Either way thank you reading and please review. I'm pretty sure this is going to be the only Type-Moon, Frozen crossover for a long time.

Either way the song that Lorelei sings at the end is called As I Strolled Out To Alyesbury. Google it if you want to listen to it, it's on youtube.


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